Watercolour Smile by Jane Washington
“Tell me, angel.”
“They didn’t kiss me. They didn’t break the rules.”
He hesitated, faint disbelief marring his features. I wondered why he cared so much about what I did with Noah and Cabe. His feelings were impossible to map-out in any logical way. Was he jealous? Or did he hate that they wanted to form the bond that had caused him so much pain, for so long?
“Dare,” he said.
I clenched my fists, frustrated, because he knew that I wanted answers. “Don’t hurt me.”
His lips twitched, and then he was laughing. Really laughing. His head was thrown back, his hands in his hair. It was more than a little bit crazy, and I tried not to be completely bewitched. It was the most enchanting—most insane—thing that I had ever witnessed. My stomach flipped, and he moved rapidly, pulling my hair into an improvised ponytail and tugging on it until my head fell back.
“That’s the one thing I can’t do.” All trace of humour was gone, and the fire in his eyes was raging. “Do you think those three would have left if they weren’t sure of that? They’ve realised; I can’t touch you.”
“You’re touching me right now.”
“Not the way I want.” He sounded confused. “I want to snap your neck, sometimes.” His free hand moved to my spine, and then slipped down over the curve of my bum. “And other things.”
“No wonder you sound confused.” I’m confused too. I could feel that emotion again, that burning in my chest, that thumping of desire that fought to be released. It was tinged in fear, and anger; and everything seemed heightened by the uneven rhythm of a singular heartbeat that didn’t belong to either one of us in particular.
His lips twitched again, and then he released me. I thought that he would step back, but he caught the hem of my wet dress and tugged it over my mouth. His thumbs hooked into the material, pulling it taunt, and then his lips pressed against mine through the barrier.
“I’ll never be able to hurt you,” he muttered against my lips. “Even though you’ve been hurting me for years.”
I couldn’t breathe.
I don’t understand.
I wanted to hit him, just a little bit, but I didn’t do anything. I stared at him as his head backed away enough to see my expression. I could feel my own eyes widening, and his grip slid around the sides of my face, still holding the material secure.
“What are you doing? What are you talking about?” I finally managed to ask, surprised that my voice came out clear through the material. He must have only used one of the layers. Come to think of it, I could still feel the other layers sticking to my thighs.
“What don’t you understand about it?” Silas asked, his eyes glinting, his tone different. His whole demeanour had changed; his expression was less alien, the rage in his eyes was muted, pushed to the background.
My breath rushed out in a relief so palpable that I actually sagged. “Thank god,” I groaned, “you’re back.”
“Hm,” he agreed, otherwise not moving. He didn’t release the material, and he didn’t step back. His attention was still on my mouth.
“Is this going to happen a lot?” I asked carefully.
Instead of replying, he took my lips again. These kisses were different to our first kiss—possibly because part of my dress was in the way. These kisses were soft, tinged with a persuasion that grew power with each brush, each nudge. He kissed my bottom lip, and then my top lip, and he swallowed each puff of breath that escaped, tasting my surprise, my fascination. He never once pressed too hard, and his fingers didn’t grip anymore than was necessary to cradle my face. Even so, my lips were soon bruised and swollen; unused to the attention.
He didn’t pull away until the ringing of his phone cut through our daydream, bringing us both back to reality. It hurt, like a wound had just been opened; the bleed of reality was punishing. He dropped the material covering my mouth immediately and stepped away.
“What?” His voice was projected lowly, but ground out, giving it an aggravated quality.
I blinked my eyes open with some effort, because my eyelids had become unbelievably heavy. I swallowed as Silas listened to whatever was being said on his phone. I was trying to control the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I suddenly felt as though I were on the verge of a panic attack. I reigned in my emotions and locked them up securely. Silas’s eyes flashed, and I recognised the expression; it was turmoil calling out for a friend, and it had found a friend in me.
Silas had his own reasons to be conflicted, but he had leaked that into me with his drugging mouth, and now I was right there with him, wracked with horrible indecision.
It’s not like this with the others.
He shook his head, hung up the phone and then turned without another word, climbing over the rocks.
Silas ignored me on the way back. I spent the drive home huddled into the back of Quillan’s Porsche between Noah and Cabe, my limbs developing a tremble that grew to such a severity that it eventually threatened to dislodge my bones. When I separated from them to shower by myself, I discovered that it wasn’t the cold that had been influencing my body’s reaction, or the shock of Silas’s kiss. It had been the strain. The shaking intensified, even as the water pounded hot and insistent over my bent head, and I ended the shower as quickly as I could, drying off and haphazardly pulling on my pyjamas.
When I left the bathroom, everyone was gone.
There was a large, folded square of paper sitting in the centre of my bed, and I snatched it up, fumbling with the smaller note that had fluttered out.
A wise old owl lived in an oak,
The more he saw, the less he spoke,
The less he spoke, the more he heard,
Why can’t we all be like that wise old bird?
“Guys?” I called out.
There was no answer, and I dropped the note, unfolding the other paper and straightening it out. It was a drawing of an owl with its wings extended, a length of rope tied around each wing-tip, dangling two stick figures. The owl and its ropes were a lead impression, each stroke of the overall drawing deliberate and precise. The wide eyes were knowing, the eyelids sweeping down mid-blink, somehow conveying the very message in the attached note. That owl was staring at me, seeing everything, knowing even more.
The stick figures were the only anomaly: they had been added in careless red crayon, clumsy in their fall to death, jerking ungracefully at the ends of their tethers.
I ran to the door and pulled it open, dashing down the hallway to the nearest bedroom. I spilled through Noah’s doorway in a panic, colliding with a form on the other side. We crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and warm hands quickly scooped me up, pulling me to my knees.
“Seraph?” Noah sounded groggy.
“Noah! You’re okay!” I threw my arms around his neck, and he huffed out a surprised breath as he lost his balance. He started to fall backwards, so I tried to counter it by pulling him the other way. He must have still been shocked, for he allowed the momentum to pull us in the other direction without righting himself, until his palms thudded against the carpet either side of me. I tried to speak, but my voice was muffled by the press of his chest against my face.
He pulled back, his bright eyes blinking at me in the darkness. “What’s going on? Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Asleep?” My arms had begun to tremble again, and I finally loosened my hold on his neck. He drew back further, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah, asleep. It’s late. You went to bed hours ago.”
“I… hours ago?”
He sat up, pulling me to my knees again. “What’s wrong with you?” His narrowed gaze dipped to my knees. “Why are you shaking?”
“T-the strain… a note… the messenger…”
“Strain? Messenger?” he questioned, standing and straightening imaginary wrinkles from his clothing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He walked away from me, leaving me kneeling on the carpet, and he sat on the edge of his bed, resting
“I…” I stammered, pulling to my feet. “I’m going to bed.”
He nodded, reaching over to turn off his bedside lamp. “Yeah, okay. Try not to wake me up next time you go sleepwalking.”
I rushed for the door in the sudden sweep of darkness, my hand stilling on the handle. “Wake you up?” My voice wavered. “You weren’t asleep, Noah. You were standing right on the other side of the door. There.” I pointed to a spot on the carpet, right in front of me—though he couldn’t see the movement in the darkness.
“No,” he countered on a yawn. I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, and a moment later his breathing evened out with sleep.
I closed the door and leaned back against it, my mind reeling. Something was wrong with Noah. He couldn’t remember me straining, and he was acting as though we weren’t bonded anymore.
Strings can be severed. Bonds can be broken. Would you like to know how painful it is?
I ran to Cabe’s door without another moment’s hesitation, already expecting the worst as I threw it open, casting a wedge of light from the hallway to spill into his room. He was in his bed, sound asleep. I approached him warily, and then reached out to gently shake his shoulder. He sat up immediately, waking far quicker than was normal for a regular person—though Cabe had never really been regular in any way.
“Seraph?” he was shocked, and he rubbed at his eyes, refocussing on me, squinting, rubbing his eyes again. “What are you doing in my room?”
“I was straining,” I blurted, desperation edging my voice. “We went swimming, you don’t remember?”
“Straining? Swimming?” He seemed confused for a moment, and then he fell back to his pillow and laughed. “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to get me back for something—well, I hate to break it to you, but I can’t even remember what I did to piss you off in the first place, so your revenge plan isn’t going to teach me any lessons.” He stretched, folding his arms behind his head, and half lowered his eyes. The expression felt oddly deliberate, despite how casual it looked. “Or was there a more urgent reason for you to be waking me up in the middle of the night? Your boyfriend might not be too happy about that, you know… But I won’t tell if you wont.” He winked at me, lazily, like he wasn’t particularly bothered by how his words might sound to me.
“Boyfriend?”
Cabe raised his brows. “Oh? It’s like that? I was only messing around… but…” he reached forward, snagged the front of my shirt, and in an instant, I was sprawled over his stomach. “I’m sure you’re aware of my rules, babe,” Babe? Rules? “One night…” He nuzzled the side of my face, his breath warm against my ear, and then he started to whisper.
I had heard Cabe swear. I had heard him flirt. I had heard him frustrated, angry, and scared.
This…
I had never heard this.
My face was stained red, and with each whispered word, the colour only saturated deeper. It wasn’t because I hadn’t heard these kinds of words before, it wasn’t even that people hadn’t attempted to talk me into their beds before—since I had worked at a nightclub for over a year. It had more to do with the fact that Cabe’s words were leaving no doubt in my mind that he didn’t particularly care about their effect. I was less than his Atmá, less than his friend, less than the girl who used to sit on his desk and flirt with him in Seattle. I jerked out of his arms, my hand cracking across his face before I had a chance to catch my reaction. His head rocked to the side, and I scrambled for the door, looking back over my shoulder just as he collected himself. He laughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as I trembled with confusion and rage.
The scratching feeling was back, skittering uneasily over the raised hairs on my arms, stirring against the strain and wrestling for power over my actions. Go to him, the bond urged. Run from him, the itching in my legs seemed to entreat. You need him. You need to get away from him. You could love him. You don’t want him.
The bond was still there. He just didn’t seem to… know about it.
“Not the reaction I usually get.” His smile stretched, chasing away any evidence that the slap had affected him. “But suit yourself. You know where I am if you change your mind—”
I ended his sentence by snapping the door shut, and then I sprinted for the stairs, tripping on the landing due to the now-violent shudder of my strain. I quickly gathered myself, swallowing back a looming sob, and made for the other side of the house. I checked Tariq’s room, mainly to assure myself that the messenger hadn’t kidnapped him or hurt him in any way, and then I sped to Silas’s room. I pushed the door open as the looming despair threatened to force me to my knees.
I should have let it, since I ended up on the floor again anyway.
Something caught me the second I passed through the doorway, sending me spiralling toward the carpet, and then a body landed over mine with all the weight and force of a person-sized slab of concrete. Hands wound around my neck, fingers stretching, squeezing, and a pained groan grated against my throat.
“Angel?” Silas whispered, disbelieving. He shifted, and the weight that had been threatening to grind my bones into dust lifted until he was supporting himself on his arms.
“If you proposition me right now I swear I’ll hurt you.” There were tears racing down my cheeks, and I screwed my eyes shut, unable to watch the change take over him.
I wondered what Silas would act like, without the bond.
“Angel.” He repeated the word on a quieter exhalation, not altogether gently but certainly a vast improvement on what I had been expecting. “You’re still straining.”
My answering sob was rough, my relief as painful as it was palpable. I reached for him, wrapping my arms around his waist in a hesitant embrace. “You didn’t forget.”
“Forget? What did those two do to you?”
I tightened my arms as he started to rise, and his eyes seared into me, his brows twitching down to draw his face into a tempestuous warning.
“N-nothing,” I said. “They just don’t remember. The messenger left another note. When I got out of the shower, nobody was there, and I went to look for them. They can’t remember. Cabe thinks I have a boyfriend… they don’t remember the strain… or the bond.”
It took a moment for Silas to process what I had told him, and then he was standing, hooking an arm beneath my knees and bunching me against his chest. He walked straight to Quillan’s room and shouldered the door open.
“Wake up,” Silas ordered sharply, causing Quillan to stir. “Do you know what this girl is?”
Quillan struggled to sit up, pushing his hair away from his eyes. “What?” he grumbled. “Of-of course.”
Silas ate up the distance to the bed in several impatient strides, and then I was tumbling into Quillan’s lap. “Don’t let her out of your sight,” he said to Quillan. “The messenger has been in the house.” He placed something onto the nightstand and turned away from us.
“What—” Quillan began, but Silas was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Quillan looked down at me. His eyes widened, blinking away the sleep and confusion. “You’re crying,” he said. I scrubbed at my face, and he hesitantly wound an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest. “You’re still straining, too.”
I sagged against him, falling into silence now that Silas was in action. The urgency had drained out of me, but looming anguish remained. Noah and Cabe had both treated me the same way they treated other girls from school. They didn’t remember… Cabe even thought I had a boyfriend.
The messenger had done th
I had gotten too close to them, and he had been watching.
The more he saw the less he spoke,
The less he spoke, the more he heard…
He was everywhere.
I glanced at the object that Silas had left behind and gasped, spotting the dull metal barrel of a gun.
“He could have shot me!” I rasped.
Quillan released a heavy breath, setting me slightly away from him so that he could pull away the blanket that separated us. He situated me back in his lap and then tugged the blanket up around my shoulders, one of his hands catching lightly at my waist and the other pressing my head to his chest. His heart was a reassuring, steady rhythm against the throbbing of hysteria that threatened my pulse.
“I told you never to sneak up on Silas, didn’t I? Now tell me what happened.”
I recounted everything that had happened, and recited the messenger’s last note, my eyes on the handgun the whole time. He didn’t say anything in return, merely held me. Eventually the strain retracted its painful claws from my body.
I waited for Quillan’s breathing to even out with sleep, but it didn’t. I tilted my head back to see him. He glanced down immediately, his eyes focussed and alert, lit with a familiar smoulder that seemed to crackle angrily. His hand moved from my hair to my cheek, brushing at the wetness beneath my eyes. I was shocked at the evidence of my continued tears, but did nothing to curb them.
“Are you hurt?” he asked. “You feel so painful… I can’t tell if you’re injured or not.”
At some point, I had released all control over the barrier that blanketed my emotions from them. I wanted to bang my head against the wall, but I settled for Quillan’s chest. He grunted.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, grasping at the unravelling remnants of my self-control to pull the pieces back together.
He shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he muttered, even as I began to draw my barrier back into place. Despite his protest, I felt some of the tension drain out of him after the task was complete, though his touch shifted to my chin, lifting my face. “Did any of them hurt you?”