“I’ve dreamt of you,” he said. “I think you and I were friends before I left for the war cause.”
“Friends?”
“Or enemies.”
“You and I were never enemies, Kitt. Not exactly.”
“Then were we something more?”
Iris was quiet. She could feel the ache in her throat, how it brimmed with words she yearned to say but should probably swallow. In the end, she spoke them—in a husky whisper that he leaned closer to hear.
“Yes. I’m your wife.”
Roman reeled as if she had struck him. His eyes went wide and dark, a stark contrast to his pale face, and Iris couldn’t bear to see his flicker of disbelief.
She turned and clambered out the window, hitting her shin on the frame. The pain was an echo as she prepared to drop to the porch roof, the world feeling off-kilter, the air too sharp in her lungs. She was about to fall when a hand grasped her arm.
The heat of his fingers seeped through her sleeve like sunlight. Iris reveled in the feel of his hand, holding her steady as if she straddled two worlds.
That hand had once caressed her in the darkness, the one and only night they had ever shared together. That hand had once worn a ring, a symbol of their vows, and had typed countless letters to her, words that had fed and comforted and strengthened her. That hand was terribly familiar; she would have known it was him touching her, even if her eyes had been closed.
Iris exhaled, tasting salt and the metallic zing of blood on her lips.
Slowly, her gaze drifted back to meet his.
Roman’s eyes were still dark as he stared up at her, but there was no glint of doubt. No scathing disbelief. There was only the shine of hunger as if Iris had just roused him from a long slumber.
His fingers trailed down her arm, following the curve of her elbow until his hand found hers, his thumb touching her wedding band. He softly gasped as if in pain, but before Iris could respond, he tugged on her. While her face dipped down, his tilted upward, until their gazes aligned and there was nothing more than a breath between their mouths.
“Iris,” he said. “Iris, I—”
He was interrupted by gunshots, sounding off in the distance.
Iris startled and crouched lower on the windowsill. She envisioned Tobias and Attie, waiting for her on the side of the road. She needed to go, and yet it felt like she was about to tear her heart up by its roots.
“Come with me, Kitt,” she whispered, tightening her hold on his hand. “Come with me.”
Roman glanced away. She could see the struggle within him. The perspiration that gleamed at his brow, as if his body was under tremendous strain.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I need to stay.”
Iris nodded, a protest dissolving on her tongue. Tears pricked her eyes, turning the world into a blurry haze. She turned to flee but Roman held on in a white-knuckled grip, as if he would evanesce into smoke the moment he let her go.
“Look at me.” His voice was pitched low. Confident and compelling. The way he had sounded before the war had come between them. “I’ll find you again when the time is right. I swear it.”
“You had better,” she countered.
The corner of his mouth quirked. A smile, but it was fleeting. “And when I do, you can ask me for the favor I owe you.”
Iris frowned. What favor? She didn’t remember them ever speaking about this. Roman must have read her face; he began to say more but was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. A sharp call that emerged from the stairwell.
“Correspondent? Report in.”
“Run, Iris,” Roman begged as he let her go.
Her palm felt bereft without his until she flexed her fingers. She saw her ring catch the light of the torch.
Iris had never removed it. The band had remained on her finger since Roman had first guided it there, gleaming at eventide in a garden. But she didn’t hesitate now; she slid the ring off and gave it to him.
“Keep it,” she said. “A token to remember me by.”
Roman said nothing in reply. But his fingers curled around the ring, hiding it like a secret in his palm.
Iris turned away. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move as she let herself fall into the darkness.
{23}
Incandescent Hearts
Iris hit the porch roof with a clatter. Her right ankle smarted from the drop as she managed to tuck and roll, catching herself before she found the edge. The thatch cut her palm but the pain was like a flare, guiding her focus as she perched on the eaves.
She was tempted to glance up at the window. To look at Roman one last time.