An ache spread through him when he felt Iris’s hands grasp his shirt, tugging him closer. He eased them to the tree until her back was aligned with it, their feet lost among a tangle of roots.
Breathe, he commanded himself, and he forced his mouth to break from hers. There was no space between their bodies, and he bent lower, his lips tracing her neck, the hollow of her collarbone.
“Roman,” Iris whispered. Her voice was husky. Strained. Roman realized she couldn’t draw a full breath, not with him pressing her against the tree as if the two of them were on the cusp of becoming immortalized, entwined amongst the branches like a myth.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, his throat narrow as he eased away.
Iris’s fingernails curled into his back, keeping him close. “No. Do you see that light? Over there, through the brambles?”
Roman glanced behind, rigid with dread. He had let himself forget, just for a moment, where they were. The world they lived in. And just as Iris had said, there was a torch beam, sweeping the neighboring property. He wondered if it was Bruce, but he didn’t want to find out.
Roman’s attention returned to Iris. Half of her face was dappled in darkness, but her eyes gleamed, soft and expectant, as she watched him.
We aren’t safe here, he thought as he took her hand in his. The wildfire that had crackled through his blood dimmed, but he could still feel the heat in his bones. Embers waiting to rekindle.
“Come with me,” he said, and led her away.
* * *
In another time, in another world where the gods had never woken, Roman would have walked Iris through the garden, showing her all his favorite places and stoking fond memories. But that world could only exist in a dream, and Roman held her hand, so warm in his cold one, and hurried her from shadow to shadow, back to the faithful lights of the estate.
They made it safely up the trellis and across the roof, slipping into his bedroom. Roman was short of breath, and he didn’t want Iris to notice. He gave himself a moment to recover by closing the window and drawing the curtains. Only then, when the two of them felt tucked into a haven where no god could ever find them, did he watch Iris study his bedroom.
Unsurprisingly, she went to his bookshelves first, her mouth agape. She touched the gilded spines lovingly; it made him want to give them all to her.
“Quite the library,” she said, casting him a wry glance. “How many thesauruses do you have on these shelves?”
“Only six.”
“Only?”
“Half were inherited.”
“Ah, I remember now. Some of these books belonged to your grandfather.”
He nodded, his gaze following her as she walked to his wardrobe next.
“So this is where my letters first came to you,” Iris said, opening the carved door.
“Mm. The paper made such a mess on my floor that I had no choice but to read what you wrote.”
“All those sharp-edged words of mine. All those thoughts that felt too difficult to speak aloud.” She paused, studying his clothes hanging within, starched and arranged by color. “I’m surprised you didn’t run from me then.”
Perhaps it was her tone, or the words she didn’t say but which he could still hear, hidden within the cadence of her breaths. Or the way her vulnerability flickered, like she was lowering a piece of steel.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Your words only drew me to you.”
She was quiet for a beat before saying, “I might need to borrow one.”
“Borrow what?”
“One of your shirts to sleep in. Although your bed is quite narrow. A one-person bed, by the looks of it.”
Roman took a step toward her. And then another, until he could count the freckles on her nose. “I thought you learned this about me during our Gazette days, Winnow.”
“I learned many things that pertained to you in that office,” Iris said, brow arched. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
He leaned down, his mouth angled close to hers. He watched her draw a deep inhale, her lips parting. But he only murmured, “I do love a good challenge.”
“Name it, then.”
“My bed can fit the two of us.”
“If you say so, Kitt.”
Before Roman could reach out and touch her, she slipped past him. But he felt the sleeve of her trench coat brush his arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind. He turned to watch her stride to his bed, where she sat on the edge of the mattress, judging its softness.
“I’ve always wanted to sleep on a cloud,” Iris said. She proceeded to lie down, her hair spilling across his pillow.