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Nodding politely, though still not speaking, he quickly released her hand and ran it through his dark, oil slicked, black hair. The edges of his fingers were also black, as if dipped in ash.
“How do you know Rook?” Amara asked, not deterred by his silence.
She was wearing a red and green, ladybug print dress. In her hair was a sparkly ladybug clip.
They were like night and day.
When he didn’t answer, Rook reluctantly answered, “He’s a business associate.”
“Oh?” Amara said expectantly.
“He’s the minister of Blackthorne chapel,” I said, trying to make a connection between the two men.
“What’s an attractive, broody man like you doing as a minister?” she asked, stepping closer.
“Amara!” I said, exasperated. Christ, the woman had no shame.
“Well?” She said, putting her hand on his chest.
He immediately stepped back, and her hand dropped to her side, but he finally spoke. He starred just beyond her, his voice low and gravelly, “Just preaching redemption to the damned. And chasing my own.”
“Are you chasing your redemption or damnation?” she asked. “By dipping into the darkness? Wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming?”
His eyes sparked with interest and, for the first time, he looked directly at her.
Now it was she who shifted away from him, and I wondered if she sensed him staring into her soul, as I often had.
“Nameless here for evermore,” he said, and she grinned.
Were they speaking a different language?
They stared at each other for a long moment, a strange tension filling the room.
What was going on?
He finally looked away and at Rook, shifting the energy in the room. Rook took the hint, hooking his finger into the top of my shirt and pulling me to him.
“I need to go,” Rook murmured, staring at me with a softness in his eyes. “You two have fun.” Squeezing my hip, he pressed something hard into my hand. Closing my fingers around it, I recognized a bank card. I opened my mouth to argue with him but, at the warning look in his gaze, clamped my lips shut.
He wouldn’t want me to argue in front of Amara and Fallon.
They turned to leave, Rook brushing his lips across my forehead once more before they disappeared through the front door.
“What. The hell. Was that?” I asked Amara.
“Poe,” she said, as if that explained everything. She was staring at the front door wistfully, biting on her lip, “Sweet baby mythical jesus, he’s fire.”
“Girl,” I said, “the man is a minister. Probably sworn to chastity or something. Plus, you’re pregnant, remember? With another man’s baby. Or did you forget?”
“Oh believe me, I haven’t forgotten. Besides,” she wiggled her eyebrows, “he doesn’t seem like a very chaste man to me.”
“Christ,” I sighed, giving up on her. “Come on, let’s eat.” I directed her towards the table out in the screened-in porch, while I got us some fresh pressed orange juice from the fridge.
She grew quiet as we ate, and she stared out the large window, her gaze out across the landscape. Something was off. Was it because of what she’d just overheard?
Probably.
The food was a hard lump in my throat, and I struggled to swallow it down.
