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They’re on our next stop.
My bedroom.
CHAPTER14
CRINA
Looking back, it was silly of me to deny what’s between Marku and me. I’ve always known I’d end up in his bed.
It was written in the stars, or in my case, in my dreams. Sleeping dreams, waking dreams, even the vision I had on our wedding day. I could’ve fought him longer on this, but seeing him wield his nunchucks over his head as he leapt into the fray to save his brother broke my will like a dry, brittle reed. In the face of death and grief and guilt, spats and grudges like the ones I’ve nursed for Marku melt away like snow in bright afternoon sunlight.
Marku brings me down a few steps to the side entrance of his house. He kicks off his shoes by the door inside the finished basement. I follow. He picks up my shoes and takes them with him. It’s ridiculous to hide my presence when his mother was at our wedding, but whatever. I get it. He doesn’t want to spook her if she comes downstairs first thing in the morning.
Speaking of his mother, Aunt Natalia redecorated since the last time I was here. While we celebrate holidays at each other’s homes, I never dared venture past the common areas. Thepiece de resistanceof the now-larger family room is a striking white marble wall with a long modern horizontal gas fireplace. She’s contrasted the aesthetic white space with a smart choice of a couch and a couple of comfy, over-sized leather seats that are a deep gray.
I pause to absorb the aura of the room. After a moment, Marku tugs my hand and leads me farther back to an area that used to be a playroom for us when we were kids.
It’s now Marku’s bedroom.
His mother decorated it with him in mind because although the black and white accent wall fits the rest of the basement, the room is extra masculine and bold. I scan the paintings on the wall and instantly drop my gaze.
I can’t even.
Looking around his room, I’m reminded of my mother’s scolding that Marku and I would make the messiest couple. It basically looks like mine would, if my mother didn’t get involved. There are a bunch of wicked-looking katana swords and bo staffs gracing the wall above his bed. I guess this is where his anime obsession from middle school inevitably led.
After another quick glance at his walls, I drop my eyes again. This time, I purposely avoid looking too far up again.
Those paintings…
If I can barely look at them, then how can he live with them?
Marku leaves my shoes near the entryway and closes the door, locking it behind him. I fall back onto his bed, letting myself bounce a little. It’s late, probably past three o’clock in the morning, and there’s no light coming from the two frosted casement windows along the far wall.
Marku saunters toward me, boldly pushes my knees apart to accommodate his bulk, and towers over me. The bulge of his jeans fists forward, but he doesn’t make any suggestive moves. In fact, he looks more pensive then anything. He lifts my chin with nothing but the tip of his finger and inspects me carefully, as if memorizing my features.
My nerves start jangling. “What is it?”
He draws in a sharp breath and stops it abruptly. “You’re so fucking beautiful that I have to remind myself to breathe when I’m around you.”
“Stop it.” I tilt my head to the side coquettishly and bat my lashes at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He chuffs out a winded laugh. “And so fucking witty. Intelligent.” His voice drops. “With the heart of an artist.”
He said it in the Bowery Poetry Café, and he says it again now. This time, the reason is plastered all over his walls.
Cristian’s oil paintings.
They’re dark, conceptual things. The largest piece covers most of the wall I’m facing. It’s huge and depicts an insurmountable rock face of blue slate that one must overcome but never can. A diptych of his paintings exhibits the inside of caverns with deep, endless lagoons one can never fully cross. Then there are the cliff paintings—saturated midnight blue cliffs that fall off into a void with a backdrop of an exploding sky.
Emotional. Angsty. Pained. Those are the words I’ve used to describe them, and that was when Cristian was alive.
The heart of an artist, Marku said.Like his brotheris what was left unsaid. I sealed my fate by bringing Marku to that Poetry Open Mic. He’s conflated me with Cristian in his mind, I’m sure. But what can I do? I’m like a spider caught in his web, a web threaded from tangled filaments of death, agony, and regret. They’re forged with a material as strong as titanium. There’s no severing them. Not without killing him in the process.
Should I be scared that I’m attached to this tortured man forever? No end in sight? Freedom—fresh, beautiful, sweet-smelling freedom—that I’ve never even gotten a good taste of is gone forever. Thinking of what I’m losing, I have the impulse to pick up my sword and fight for it again—but not tonight. Not after the vision. Not after witnessing the tragedy of Critian’s death, of Marku’s despair. Not while being surrounded by these paintings in this tomb-like bedroom.
Tonight, I lay down my blade and open my arms to my soon-to-be-lover, to my love.
Marku grazes his finger up my cheek, bringing me back to him. He traces my cheekbone once, twice. The tip of his finger falls to my bottom lip and swipes back and forth. There’s something so erotic about that slow, repetitive movement.
