from my chest as I waited for Flame’s response. As much as I did not think I could do this, that I would not be able to touch his hand, or more, I wanted to try so badly. In this moment, after seeing him so torn apart, reverting back to the memories that kept him jailed behind high walls, I wanted so badly to be able to hold him. He deserved my affection.
I believed that I too deserved affection.
Flame’s nostrils were flared as he stared down at my sketch. I joined him too, seeing what hope occupied my mind most days.
Then just as I felt Flame would not be able to try, he placed down the sketchpad and took a deep breath. As his near black eyes met mine, I shivered. His eyebrows pulled down. “Why’re you shivering?”
Smoothing my hands over my bare arms, I replied, “I am cold.”
Flame glanced over his shoulder to the fire I had lit just before he came in and he got to his feet. I could see how weak he was after he had expelled himself on his floor. And I also imagined the gravity of what we were about to try was making him just as nervous as I.
“Let’s go by the fire, it’s warmer,” Flame said and gestured me forward. I got to my feet and slowly followed behind, each step feeling as though any strength I had was slipping away.
With each step, all I saw in my mind was Moses’ hand skimming up my leg. I felt his hand grip between my legs and push his finger inside. I could see all of the disciples, after Mae’s departure, coming for me. I could feel their hands on my wrists and ankles holding me down to a table, and I could feel the kiss of cold air brushing my skin as they ripped my garment from my body, prizing my legs apart, taking me over and over again. I would pass out, only to be awakened by a hard thrust pushing inside of me, the disciples working hard to eradicate the sin from my soul.
But it was their hands, their calloused rough hands skirting over my flesh that I could not stand. Their fingers palming my breasts, their fingers scraping over my folds, stabbing inside.
“Maddie?” Flame’s low graveled voice cut through my thoughts. When I looked up, he was sitting before the fire, his large body hunched over, as though he was broken, as though his fear was as intense as mine.
And my heart broke at the unfairness. The unfairness of us two, so fearful of what nightmares the deliberate touch of another might evoke.
“I… I am finding the thought of touching... fearful,” I whispered. Flame’s shoulders sagged even more.
“Me too,” he admitted, so quietly that I nearly did not hear him.
Inhaling a deep breath, I walked over and sat before him. The heat from the fire immediately warmed my skin.
Under the heat, I moved to lay on my side, my hand flat to the floor just in front of my face. But my eyes never left Flame, and he was watching me the entire time, his head tilted slightly, as if in wonder.
I remained silent, the crackling of the burning of wood the only sound, until Flame moved his large body and laid before me too. His hand flattened to the floor, resting mere inches from mine. But our gazes were locked.
Feeling my heart dance in my chest, I asked, “Are you scared?”
Flame’s jaw clenched and he nodded his head. “Yeah,” he rasped out. “I’m fucking scared I’ll hurt you.” He released a pent up breath, adding, “But I want to know what you feel like. I want to know what your hand feels like on mine. Like your picture.” His eyes dropped and he said, “I can’t get that fucking picture from my head.”
My fingers curled and straightened, carefully replacing themselves back on the wooden floor. And feeling I needed to talk, I said, “Except from you,” I inhaled, fighting my nerves to keep on going, “I have only been touched by men who wanted to hurt me.” Flame stiffened, and by the quick rising and falling of his broad chest, I knew he was getting angry. “Every night that I sleep, I feel them touching me. I wake in a cold sweat, my nightdress drenched because I relive what they did to me. I feel the pain, I feel their unwanted intimate touches, the burns, the lashes… the blinding