Love the Way You Lie(40)

It’s why I came with him. He’s a breath of life.

“It’s nothing scary,” he assures me. “It’s…like a present.”

My heart skips. “A present? Because your presents have a tendency to be scary.”

That makes him laugh. “Not this one.”

“What is it?” I tease him. “A battle ax? A sword?”

He just smiles mysteriously and leads me into the grass.

There is no path here. We follow the tree line, walking through lush grass already damp with dew. Then the trees break, revealing a structure standing at the top of a hill. Is it a house? But no, it is made entirely of windows. Or at least, there used to be windows. Now there are tall empty spaces where glass would go. It could almost pass for an old greenhouse except for the elaborate dome on the top.

And the turrets.

It reminds me of a woman. An old stately woman with gray hair and a serenity that only comes from experience. I don’t look at her and think, she once was beautiful. I think, she is beautiful. Every wrinkle in her skin, every crack in the stone, stands for a secret she kept.

“What is this place?” I breathe.

He is quiet a moment. I look over to find him studying me, an uncertain light in his eyes. He’s studying me, I realize, and that both unnerves and charms me, that he would be that interested in me, that he wants to see beneath the smooth, waxed surface of my skin.

“I’m not sure. The house is two klicks south of here. Or what’s left of it. This was… a detached ballroom? An observatory? Maybe both.”

A ballroom. That sounds right.

I’m too excited now. I let go of his hand and run ahead, finding the door even though every window is open. There is no actual door either, just an empty frame. I step inside and look up. The ceiling is faded, scrubbed from the inside each time a storm rages. But I can still see the painting of cherubic angels.

I can’t even begin to guess when this place was built or how long it has lain abandoned, but somehow, a few panes of window have survived, mostly near the ceiling or the base, where they were partially protected by a turret outside. I couldn’t see them from outside because they were too murky, too muted to reflect the moonlight. The gloom of them matched the gloom inside, camouflaged.

But here, I can see the windows clearly, blocking the sight of the trees. From inside I can see everything.

He is standing by the door when I look back. His arms are folded. He leans against the empty doorframe, his face shrouded in shadow. Somehow I’m in the middle of the room. I forgot myself for a moment, forgot to be worried. Forgot to be afraid.

I approach him slowly, feeling somehow shy. He’s done filthy things to my body, and I’ve done them to him. But now I am just a girl who’s been given a present by a boy.

I look down for a moment at my shoes and the marble floor beneath, made murky with time. “Not that I don’t appreciate you bringing me here. But why?”

Of all the things he could have given me. He could have taken me to see a movie. He could have brought me a flower. Instead he took me here, knowing this would mean more than anything.

Not just why. How?

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t take payment from my body, not yet. “I thought you might want to dance here.” He nods toward the floor. “Like the roof.”

Oh, but this isn’t like the roof. It isn’t uneven, with rusted metal bars jutting up from the concrete. It isn’t covered in tiny pebbles, pieces of the structure itself crumbling away under the elements. Instead there is smooth marble—almost unbreakable, this floor. The wind has swept away any leaves. The rain has washed away any dirt. It almost gleams. Not like the roof at all.

I can’t see him clearly. It is still too dark for that, but I can almost swear he’s blushing. I’m surprised he even knows how to. It’s not even a color, it’s a feeling. Maybe it can only ever be something to feel, his generosity. His quiet acceptance of who and what I am.

My chest is too full, and my eyes are too wet. I consider dropping to my knees to thank him. I could make it so good.

Instead I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. The growth of whiskers is scratchy against my lips, his skin warm under that.

“Thank you.”

Then I leave him by the door, to watch me and wait as I dance like I’m alone. I start off slowly, plié, grand plié. And this time when I stretch my body in a grand arabesque, I am not wringing myself clean of unwanted hands—I am reaching. For him. For the sky beyond the painted ceiling and through the open window frames. I am reaching for a time and a place when I won’t have to hide anymore.

My skin is slick with sweat by the time I have finished. Even then I don’t want to be finished, but the tops of the trees are pink with pre-dawn light. I should go back.