That chilling phrase had followed Roman up the remainder of the stairs. His family was entangled with the dealings of a god, and he didn’t know how they would be able to free themselves when the war was over. If Dacre won … they would be forever beholden to him. And if Enva won … the Kitts would be branded as traitors.
Roman slipped into his room and locked the door. He leaned against the wood, checking the time.
It was only half past nine.
He had one more hour until Iris arrived. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the adjacent lavatory, turning on the shower.
He let the hot water hit his chest until his skin looked burned. He scrubbed with a bar of pine soap and washed his hair, his fingertips pruned by the time he shut off the valve and dried himself. After wiping fog from the mirror, he combed back his dark hair and shaved, then studied his reflection.
He looked hollow and far older than he should be.
He glanced away, heart quickening when he checked the time again. It was nearly ten o’clock.
Roman had padded from the lavatory and opened his wardrobe. He put on his best clothes, cuffing the button-down’s sleeves to his elbows, leaving the neck open. Another pair of trousers, held in place with his leather braces. Well-worn shoes that would help him move quietly.
He sat on his bed and bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting.
When ten twenty finally hit, he rose and opened his window. He had done this a few times when he was younger, the thrill of defying his father’s strict rules sweet as a piece of hard candy. But after Del had died, Roman had stopped doing things like this. Roman had stopped living in many ways, his guilt a smothering phantom.
But he eased his way out onto the roof, his muscles remembering the old motions. He moved to the edge, where the trellis was bolted to the side of the house, fragrant with blooming vines. Roman climbed down, relieved when his shoes hit the grass.
He had moved from shadow to shadow, keeping low and silent, pausing a few times to scan his surroundings. He sought any sign of Val. Any sign of his father’s associate Bruce. But there was only a gentle breeze and the freshly bloomed flowers. The willows and the hawthorns and cherry trees. The perfectly manicured shrubs and the dance of a few sly weeds.
Roman continued on his way, reaching the appointed spot. He waited, pacing over the roots. He distracted himself with recounting the events of the day, over and over. But he checked his wristwatch in the moonlight, a knot of worry tightening his chest.
It was now ten forty-seven, and there was no sign of Iris.
Eventually, he was so anxious that he had to sit. He coughed until the pain sharpened and his eyes watered, and he closed them, focusing on his breathing. Slow and deep and meaningful.
He checked his watch again, unable to resist. It was ten fifty-eight.
How long until I give up?
The problem was that Roman didn’t like to quit, and he would wait all night for Iris. Until the moon set and the sun broke the horizon, melting all the stars. Until he had no choice but to return to the parlor door.
It was twelve past eleven when he finally heard a branch snap.
Roman stood. He strained his eyes in the shadows, his worry dissolving when he recognized Iris’s shape, moving through the brambles.
“Confound it all, Kitt!” she whispered. “You weren’t kidding about the thorns.”
Roman smiled into the darkness. He took her hand, drawing her from the brambles until she stood before him, so close he could feel her breathe. Moonlight spangled her face, catching in her eyes like stars.
“It’s good to see you again too, Winnow,” he said, watching a smirk spread across her lips. It evoked a pleasant pang in him, one that made him think of the old days, when he would stand at her desk and pester her. “And I’d give anything to know your thoughts at the moment, and what I’ve done to earn such a look from you.”
“I’m here to call in the favor you owe me,” Iris said. “A favor you granted me on a windowsill, far far away.”
Roman had been waiting for this moment. How many times had he lain on his bed in the darkness, alone and sleepless, haunted by the longing?
He wove his fingers into Iris’s hair and brought his mouth down to hers.
{35}
Forget Me Not
She tasted just as he remembered. Like sugar in strong black tea. Lavender. The first rays of dawn. Mist that has just burned away from a meadow.
Roman framed her face, his thumbs caressing the blush of her cheeks as his mouth opened to hers. He groaned when her tongue slid along his. She was everything familiar, everything beloved to him, and yet there was a hint of something new and unexpected when her teeth nipped his lower lip. A taunt, a challenge. A side of her that he was desperate to explore and memorize.