Page 45 of Feathers From the Sky

The attraction was there from the beginning, and there have been so many opportunities for it to be eviscerated. Even so, it lingers. Am I that starved? That fucked in the head? Despite what he’s done to me, that profound grief we share arrests me, seizes my logic and squeezes. That desire to do something, anything, to right the wrongs, to undo time and change the past, to bring justice to those we’ve lost—in that, Roman and I are the same.

Like calls to like, and that should have been a warning to us both.

If Roman feels that existential dread I do, the one that snatches any light and makes me long for the dark, I haven’t seen it. He is pure motivation, driven completely by that desire for retribution, and I am envious. Single-minded, the call for vengeance is a fixed idea in his mind, and I’m beginning to think I might be the only thing that could divert him from it.

Shaking my head, I turn off the water and grab my towel. Any fondness I think Roman might hold for me is something I’m making up in my head to keep me calm. My mind suspects my days are numbered and these imaginings are a dying light within the body of a person close to death.

“Hurry the fuck up!”

Roman slams a heavy fist against the door to punctuate his words, and I jump. I lean forward and wipe the steam off the mirror, and start brushing my teeth. I try not to think about how strong his hands are, how they wrapped around my thighs as he feasted on my flesh. He’d been so intimately close to sensitive parts of me, there’s little wonder it had turned me on. It didn’t help I had still been ready from before.

From when I’d wanted to start the day relaxed for once, unable to take my anxiety medication I so desperately need, and I’d let my fingertips and mind wander. It shouldn’t have been to Roman that it went, but it had. I’d thought of the way he’d caressed me in the forest before everything imploded. His demanding touch and rough beard rubbing against my skin is a potent memory I struggle to resist. Hell, I’d even thought of the dream I’d had of him fucking me.

There is no explanation for this, truly. Roman is my villain, my captor, and just because so many of his wounds are mine, we don’t bleed the same—him and I. In another life, Roman and I could seek solace in each other’s arms and bodies, and the fact I yearn for that possibility is fucking dangerous.

But if I’m going to survive, it’s in my best interest to get Roman to entertain that idea, too.

When I’m finally dressed and ready, I take a deep breath before I walk out of the bathroom. I expect the situation might have put him in a foul mood, and I need to be prepared for it. Depending on how it goes, I have a secret weapon. I won’t hesitate to use it if I need to.

Roman’s laying on my bed, looking over the letter from my father, and I’m furious with Dad all over again.

“You know, I ought to be annoyed he didn’t mention my mother in this,” Roman says.

“Why would he mention that?”

“Why do you think? To prepare you.”

“To prepare me for what?” He smirks up at me, and I roll my eyes. “For you,” I say, crossing my arms. My hair is still wet, and I shiver as my shirt becomes saturated.

“For me,” he agrees.

“That would distort the pretty image of our life that I’ve believed all these years.” Roman arches a brow when he hears the bite in my words. I pace, grabbing the next box of Dad’s things and tossing it on the bed by Roman’s enormous feet. “Do you think Mom knew?”

“Angela?”

“She’s the only person I ever called Mom, so yes. I thought you stalked me or whatever. You should know who I’m talking about when I say Mom,” I snap. He sits up, bristling. “I know Cynthia means something to you or whatever, but she means literally nothing to me. Sucks for my dad that she died, I guess. But I never knew her, and I never will. Angela was my mom.”

“Fair enough.” He nods, surprised to agree with me. “I would assume he’d have written about it in that letter—if she was complicit.”

I expected him to put me in my place, but he’s much more subdued than expected. When I notice his dilated pupils, I understand why.

“You’re drunk on my blood, aren’t you?”

“It will pass.”

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur, picking up another photo album from the new box. This one is bright purple and covered in gemstones. I’d taken my time with the first box, poring over every single thing within it. Roman had been equally interested, so he hadn’t pushed me to move faster. The longer I took, the more time I had, so I made excuses to be exceedingly thorough. But now I’m holding more pictures in my hand, and I’m annoyed my dad took so many. He had been documenting a life full of half-truths.

“No. I’m Roman Sauveterre,” he says, and I squint over at him. A smile splits his face, and his eyes twinkle with a carefree mischief I’ve never seen. When laughter escapes me as understanding dawns, it’s genuine.

“Sasha made this for me.” I move to sit beside him on the twin size bed. It’s very small and very uncomfortable for one bigger person, let alone two, but I rifle through the photographs, anyway.

“I wanna know who every person is in every picture,” Roman says, slurring his words a bit.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s mostly just me.”

A toddler in a floral dress with the biggest grin and a wicker basket full of colorful plastic eggs looks up at me from the glossy print. On the next page, I’m a little older and sniffing the tulips in our neighbor’s flowerbed. I’m sitting on a pumpkin bigger than I am while dressed up like a black cat. Dad took a lot of pictures of me back then.

“You look happy.”

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