“I have a request, Winnow.”
“Gods, Kitt,” she said before she could stop herself. “What now?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, amused. “Come and sit next to me on our bed.” He walked past her and knelt on the pile of blankets, careful of his leg as he situated himself with his back against the wall.
Iris followed but chose to unlace and remove her boots before she stepped on the blankets. She helped Roman with his, and so that was the first article of clothing removed between them. Their shoes.
She settled beside him. His heat began to seep into her side, and she realized how brilliant this was going to be, sleeping next to him every night. She would never get cold again.
“All right, Kitt,” she said. “What is your request?”
“I would like you to read something to me.”
“Oh? And what is this something?”
“One of your letters.”
That caught her by surprise. She cracked her knuckles but thought it was only fair of her to return the favor to him. “Yes, all right. But only one. So choose wisely.”
He smiled down at her, his hand reaching to the floor beside the pallet.
“You keep my letters at your bedside?” she asked.
“I reread most of them every night.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Here it is. This is the one,” he said, handing her a very wrinkled piece of paper.
She smoothed the creases from the letter, skimming a few lines. Ah yes. This one. Iris cleared her throat, but she glanced up at Roman before she began. He was intently watching her.
“There’s one stipulation, Kitt.”
“I can’t look at you while you read,” he surmised, remembering his own dilemma.
Iris nodded and he shut his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.
She returned her gaze to the paper. She began to read, and her voice was deep and smoky, as if she were pulling the words from her past. From a night when she had been sitting on the floor of her room.
“I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, ‘You will miss so much by being so guarded.’”
She paused, emotion rising in her throat. She didn’t dare look at Roman. She didn’t know if his eyes were open or still shut as she continued, reaching the end.
“All right, now I’ve let the words spill out. I’ve given you a piece of armor, I suppose. But I don’t think you’ll mind,” she finished, folding the letter back up. “There. Does that satisfy you, Kitt?”
He took the letter back. “Yes. Although there is another one I’d like you to read. Where did I put it…？”
“Another one? At this rate, you’ll have to read a second letter to me, then.”
“I accept those terms. This one is quite short, and it might be my favorite.” He found it, holding the paper between them.
She was curious. She accepted it and was just about to glance over this letter when a firm knock rattled the door, startling them both. Her stomach dropped when she imagined all the reasons why someone might be interrupting them. Dacre has been spotted. It’s time to retreat. It’s the beginning of the end.
She met Roman’s gaze. She saw the same dread in his countenance. That their time had been cut short. They had managed to speak their vows but never had the chance to fulfill them.
“Roman? Iris?” Marisol’s voice called through the wood. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Keegan has issued a blackout for the town. No electricity and no candlelight for the rest of the night, I’m afraid.”
Roman was frozen for a second. And then he said, “Yes, of course! Not a problem, Marisol.”
Iris scrambled to her feet, blowing out the countless candles Attie had lit for them. The flames died, one by one, until only one candle remained burning, held in Roman’s hand.
Iris returned to their bed. She sat facing him this time, the letter still in her fingers.
“Read it to me quickly, Iris,” he said.
A shiver coursed through her. She felt like sugar melting in tea. She dropped her gaze to the letter and softly read, “I’ll return most likely when the war is over. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice.”
She looked at Roman again. Their gazes held while he blew out the candle. The darkness rushed in, surrounding them. And yet Iris had never seen so many things before.
She whispered, “I want to touch you.”
“Now that wasn’t in the letter,” he said wryly. “I would have framed it on the wall had it been.”
“Alas,” she countered. “I wanted to write it to you then. I didn’t, though, because I was afraid.”
He was quiet for a beat. “What were you afraid of?”
“My feelings for you. The things I wanted.”
“And now?”
She reached out and found his ankle. Slowly, her fingers drifted up to his knee. She could feel the bandages beneath his jumpsuit; she could see his wounds in her mind, the way they would scar. She said, “I think you’ve made me brave, Kitt.”
His breath escaped him, a tenuous unspooling, as if he had been holding it in years for her. “My Iris,” he said, “there is no question that you are the brave one, all on your own. You were writing to me for weeks before I roused the courage to write you back. You walked into the Gazette and took me and my ego on without a blink. You were the one who came to the front lines, unafraid to look into the ugly face of war long before I did. I don’t know who I would be without you, but you have made me in all ways better than I ever was or could have ever hoped to be.”
“I think you and I are simply better together, Kitt,” she said, and her hand traveled to his thigh.
“You took the words right from my mouth,” he replied with a slight gasp. She felt him shift; the blankets pulled at her knees. She thought he was retreating from her until he said, “Come closer, Iris.”
She moved forward, reaching for him. His hands found her at last, touching her face, the slope of her shoulders. He drew her to him, and after momentarily getting her foot caught in one of the blankets, she straddled his lap.
Kissing him in the dark was entirely different from kissing him in the light. When the sun had gilded them hours ago, they had been eager and clumsy and hungry. But now, in the shadows of night, they were languid and thorough and curious.
She was bold in the darkness. She drew her lips across his jaw; she pressed her mouth to his throat, to the wild beat of his pulse. She drank the scent of his skin; she slid her tongue along his, tasting his sighs. She noticed how he touched her in return—reverently, mindfully. His hands would come to rest on the front of her ribs, his fingers splayed as if yearning for more, and yet they didn’t rise any higher or slide any lower.
Iris wanted his touch. She didn’t know why he was hesitating until she felt his fingers find the top button of her jumpsuit, and he whispered, “May I?”