A Dance of War - Ellie R. Hunter Page 0,60

shoes and jeans and I’m struck speechless. Every night since introducing myself to her before the painting of the fallen angel, I’ve conjured up many images of what she looked like under her dresses and sweaters. Never did I imagine her to be flawlessly perfect. I mean, I did, but having her naked before me, able to reach out and caress her, it’s a sight that’ll forever be burned into my mind.

My pants soon join the discarded clothes at our feet, and nothing but the rain can be heard as we climb under the sheets.

“There’s no going back after this,” I murmur, almost afraid to speak and break the moment.

“Good.”

During the many, many, times I’ve pleasured myself, fantasising about this moment, I didn’t account for the awkwardness. The dealing with the condom, the positioning to make sure she is, above everything, comfortable. And most of all, the painful fear that I’m going to hurt her. My head is spinning with so many thoughts, but it’s not until she lets out a quiet, breathy moan that I find the perfect rhythm, all while staring into each other’s eyes.

The thunder, the lightning, and the rain all but disappear as I roll my hips slowly, holding the back of her head in my palm, trying to somehow make her feel safe under me. The urge to tighten my grip in her hair grows stronger the closer to the edge I get, but I refrain, trying to think of anything I can to prevent from finishing so damn quick. When she wraps her legs around my waist, urging me to go deeper, I’m done. I’m left a quivering mess on top of her, a shred of awareness not to drop my full weight on her still getting through.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, resting my forehead against hers.

“For what?”

“It wasn’t very long.”

Her chuckle should do nothing for my ego, but placing her hand on the side of my face, she brings me in for a kiss.

“My mother thinks I’m still at church. We have the rest of the day, and then we have the rest of our lives. Don’t be sorry. It was more than I had hoped for.”

My ego intact, I ease out of her and deal with the condom before lying beside her, holding her to me.

“How do you feel?” I ask, biting my lip, waiting to hear her reply.

Her body shifts as she takes stock of herself. “Fine. Stop worrying about me.”

That’s just it, though. I can’t ever see a day where I’m not worrying about her. Today was more than I was expecting, and it’s already given me more cause to fight our fathers to give us a life together, as well as a thousand more moments like this.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Raphael

The shower and wet shave only managed to make me look more human. On the inside, I’m rotting, and it won’t be long before it seeps from my pores and drags me down to Hell where I belong.

“Cousin, you’re worrying me.”

The streets pass by in a blur, and I don’t have the energy to straighten my focus and converse with Cristian.

Five days ago, I laid my brother to rest and felt nothing as two people stood by to see him off into the afterlife, if one believes it to be waiting for us on the other side. And today, the streets are lined with hundreds of people wearing black after Jamila Camarco’s—my Mila’s—bones burned in the flames of a bomb I had planted. My blue eyes have not stopped weeping since.

My mother’s ramblings came true, and every action I’ve taken made them so.

“Raphe? Going to Antonio’s funeral was one thing, but we shouldn’t be attending Jamila’s. We’ll be killed on sight.”

Rolling my head against the headrest, my cousin sits with worry and concern for our lives when he can’t see that they mean nothing now.

“She was a worthy opponent, but this was always going to be how it ended. It’s better to bury her than her bury you.”

Five days ago, I would’ve put a bullet through his brain, just like the soldier I shot. But today… today is for her.

The car stops outside the church, the black clouds that have hovered over the city since her death threatening to storm.

I don’t focus on the people surrounding the church, but I hear their murmurs. They’re sickened at my presence, and throw curses at me until the first flake of snow falls, followed by a flurry. The wind picks up, and ice-cold flakes hit

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