Page 22 of Roma Queen
It’s the sun exploding, and the sky falling, and the world as I know it fucking ending. With my heart slamming in my chest, I lie down beside her, and Zara’s hazy, endorphin-clouded eyes meet mine.
Right then and there, I know my old life is in ruins, and there is nothing to go back to if I don’t have her.
Ten
ZARA
The world is so,so still. Holding its breath.
When I wake up, crushed against the side of thevardo, with Pasha’s heavily muscled arm locked in a tight embrace around my body, it feels like my ears are blocked. It’s almost as if I’m wearing a pair of noise cancelling headphones and the ambient sound has been sucked out of the world. All I can hear is the steady, slow, even push and pull of Pasha’s breath over my head, and the soft rustle of the blankets as I wriggle back, closer to the warmth of his body and away from the frigidly cold side of the wagon.
My body hums with pain—an over-stretched, deep ache in my muscles and my joints, reminding in a very pleasant way of the workout I got last night. Memories flicker through my head—Pasha’s hands on my breasts, his fingers gouging into my flesh one second, gently stroking and teasing the next. His talented mouth drawing sigh after sigh out of me, followed by his name, repeatedly and breathlessly called out as I pleaded him for release.
I’ve always found that such an eye-roller in movies—that moment when the couple finally get down and dirty, and the woman is a hot mess, gasping the male lead’s name on every other breath. It’s always just seemed so over the top and unnecessary to me, like the heroine’s trying to use the guy’s name a lot to make sure she’ll remember it later. Last night, I learned my lesson, though. I couldn’t fucking stop myself. His name was a prayer on my lips. A plea. An exaltation. The smell of him overrode my olfactory senses. My skin came alive under his meticulous attentions. His voice, stone on stone, arrogant and humble, rough and gentle, was a song in my ears. He demanded every part of me, and I gave myself to him willingly. I suppose it makes total sense that the only word I could utter was his name.
He stirs behind me, his fingers twitching against my stomach, and then he nuzzles his face into the back of my neck. My cheeks ache with the effort it takes to keep the small, secret smile from my face. I shield my mouth with my hand, hiding the traitorous grin as it spreads without my permission, but in the end I give in to it, giving it free rein as I beam to myself, giddy over the fact that I’m being held by a man I…
A man I…
Wow. What the hell? I screw my eyes shut, shaking the thought out of my head before it can take shape and solidify. I amnotin love with Pasha Rivin. I can’t be. There are social norms that have to be observed here. A waiting period. I need to discover every single little detail there is to know about him before I can claim such a thing. And then I have to wait some more, just to make sure, before I let such a risky word venture into my vocabulary. That’s how these things work. This is what I tell myself as I lightly stroke my fingers over the fine, dark hairs on the back of his arm, wondering over the sheer miracle of the man.
He is made up of skin cells, bone, plasma, and iron. A considerable percentage of his body is water. He has hair follicles, and tendons, and fingernails, and teeth. Just like me, Pasha is a creature made out of a series of parts and ingredients, combined to make a living, breathing, functioning life form. So why, then, does it feel like he is so much more than that? If he’s so much like me, then how can his existence feel like such a fuckingmiracle? I can’t even begin to wrap my head around it.
I feel his lips move against the back of my head before I hear him speak. He kisses me lightly, humming out a pleased, cat-like purr, and then he whispers, “Can you feel it, Firefly?”
“If you’re talking about your morning glory, then yes, I can,” I whisper back.
He chuckles, and the arm that he’s kept wrapped around me all night long tightens as he crushes me in a fierce hug. It feels like my ribs are about to crack but thankfully they don’t. “No, Dirtbag. I was not talking about my dick. For once.” He playfully bites the top of my earlobe, then places his lips against the shell of my ear. His stubble sends a violent, amazing shiver through me as he whispers, “It snowed.”
Snow? Lord. So that's why it sounds like the world is on mute. Yesterday, when we were walking to the Rivin camp, it’d certainly been cloudy and cold enough for snow, but last night when Pasha and I entered thevardo, the sky had been clear, the stars overhead blazing pinpricks of light, distant and brilliant. The last thing I expected when I tumbled into bed was that I’d wake to a world shrouded in snow.
I donotwant to get out of bed, but I need to check out of the window. I need to see for myself. Pasha snarls like a feral wolf as I sit up, pulling the covers from his body, exposing his bare chest. “Jesus Christ, woman, have you got a death wish? It's minus fucking ten. My dick’s gonna retract inside my body.”
“It's like ripping a Band-Aid off. You gotta be a man and get it over with as quickly as possible.” I huff out a breath of laughter, clambering over him to get out of the bed. Pasha reaches for me, trying to grab hold of me by the hips, but I'm too quick for him. I hiss through my teeth as my bare feet meet the cold wooden floorboards. Pasha props himself up on his elbow, watching me as I hop from foot to foot, swearing colorfully under my breath.
“That shirt looks damn good on you, Firefly,” he says.
“What? This old thing?” It’s his t-shirt—the one he was wearing yesterday. It smells heavenly, so distinctly Pasha. I give him a little twirl. “It barely covers my ass cheeks.”
Pasha groans. “That's what I like about it the most. And the fact that I can see those long legs of yours. Maybe I shouldn't give you back your clothes. Maybe I'll just keep you trapped in here with me, half naked with nothing but my old t-shirts to wear.”
“We'd never get anything fucking done,” I laugh.
“We'd get a lot of fucking done,” he fires back.
My cheeks color at the mere thought of it. Of hours and days and weeks trapped in this small confined space with him. It would be amazing. It’d be heavenly. It would be our lives, if the world were a perfect place. ‘Your world isn't perfect though, is it Zara?’A small voice in the back of my mind reminds me. ‘Your world is seriously fucked up at the moment. A little boy is dead. Your friend’s missing, and this beautiful savage, this enigmatic man that you’ve become entangled with, is heir to the Roma throne.’
If the people of the Rivin clan vote for him this evening, then Pasha won't just be a cage fighting tattoo artist. He will be a king.Theirking. And that will change things in an undeniable way for us. We've had so little time together that we've had no opportunity to form a routine together. No getting up in the morning and sharing breakfast together. No kisses goodbye as he drops me off for work. No arguing over what we should eat for dinner. The easy ebb and flow of a relationship does not exist between us yet, and I doubt that it ever will. I can't for one second envisage us ever sharing such a mundane, rote existence. Even once we've taken care of Lazlo and found Sarah, I already know that life will not return tonormalfor us, whatever that means.
I have no idea how Pasha's new role will effect his life moving forward, but there’ll be responsibilities and duties he’ll need to attend to. His people will require his guidance and his leadership, and, no matter how little I want to consider the thought, there’s every chance the clan will want to leave Washington. He said it himself: the Roma are wanderers. The Rivins think he's absolutely crazy for setting up shop in Spokane; it's highly unlikely they'll want to stay here forever, even in this beautiful, hidden, secluded corner of the world.
Shelta will never give her consent to lock the Midnight Fair down in one city. Even if she wanted to stay, even if she thought remaining in Washington was a great idea, it wouldn’t fucking matter. She’d make sure the clan voted against such a move purely out of spite. I dread to think what kind of fireworks display we'll be treated to if Pashaisvoted king tonight. Shelta will never accept the clan's decision, especially now that it means Pasha could be staying with them. She’ll lose the power she holds over her people. She’ll be nobody. Just another member of the clan. To go from ruling the Rivin people for so long to sinking down to their level, no better or no worse than them, is going to be a very bitter pill for her to swallow.
I push all thoughts of tonight's vote out of my mind as I sweep back the small curtain that covers that round porthole window in the side of the wagon. The bottom of the window pane is fogged with condensation on the inside and obscured by frost on the outside. But beyond the glass I see that Pasha was right: it did snow. The world’s completely shrouded, a thick white mantel covering the tops of the spruce, the fir, and the pine trees that surround the small glen, shielding the Rivin camp from the rest of the park. To the right of the wagon, the river that we first found Shireen collecting water from last night is still flowing, unfrozen, but the grey water is surging quickly down the hillside, capped with froth and foam. Angry looking, like a rope of molten lead. Fires still burn in front of the other wagons, whose roofs are laden with at least half a foot of snow. On the ground, narrow footpaths have been cut through the white blanket of snow that covers everything, tracking between thevardosand the gathering hall, snaking back toward what I can only assume are outhouses and a covered laundry area.
Seems as though most members of the Rivinvitsaare too smart to be outside this morning, but there are a couple of people gathered in front of the furthestvardo—a red painted wagon with a white fascia and bright orange trim. At this distance, it's hard to tell whether they’re men or women. They're so bundled up against the cold, thick coats, and gloves, and hats, and scarves, that the shape of them is merely human instead of male or female. Columns of fog rise, pluming in the cold morning air as they speak to one another. The figure on the left gesticulates wildly, throwing their arms up into the air, and the other one shakes their head, taking a step back. They're obviously locked into deep conversation. An argument, perhaps. The person on the right rips off their gloves and throws them on the ground before turning their back on the other person and hurrying off out of the camp, heading toward the river.
I nearly jump out of my damn skin as I feel hands on my hips again. Pasha, silent as ever, has gotten out of bed and is standing behind me. He rests his chin on the top of my head and groans.
