Understanding.
Unwavering.
I know, deep in my soul, that there’s nothing I could ever do to push Benedict away.
And that knowledge means everything to me.
And his love… heals me.
A Queen in her Own Right
Benedict Martin
Keswick,Present
I wake up to soft skin entangled with mine, the smell of bergamot lingering in the air. Groaning, I reach up and rub my eyes. It’s early—the light is a soft, a medium blue. The bathroom light slices through the small room. We forgot to turn it off last night, too absorbed in each other, too distracted by taking our fill of the other person. Three times. We had sex three times. I’ve never been this eager, this hungry for another person. I could drink her up completely, and then need seconds immediately. Thirds. And on, and on. From the moment I met her, I knew it would be like this. Unquenchable, desperate, emotional. How could it not be?
I slowly roll over, successfully not waking Evelyn as I reach over to the bedside table and check my phone. It’s just before seven in the morning. I shoot a quick text to Hayes letting him know that I’m awake, and then I crawl out of bed and stare out the window. The morning is misty, fog lining the green lawn before us. Up ahead is the lake, and beyond that, a sprawling parkland. It’s beautiful. I watch as two swallows chase each other, dipping and diving through the dense fog. The sun hasn’t broken through the clouds yet, and everything is so still, so serene. With Evelyn in the bed behind me, I imagine a life with her in a place like this. Quiet—just the two of us. No Brotherhood. No MI6. No undercover stings. A simple life—a life I always wanted, but never received. It’s as if my body has known what is has needed.Evelyn.
When my mother left my father, I was so young. Barely eleven. Our small townhouse outside of Paris was plain, simple. I had no siblings. I assumed we were happy, assumed we werenormal. It wasn’t until the night we left—the night I saw my father beat my mother, and then turn on me—that I realized nothing about my childhood had been normal. We drove for hours that night, staying with relatives in Normandy. From there, we found a place in Auvers-sur-Oise—the place infamous for Vincent Van Gogh’s death.
We moved around a lot, never settling anywhere but always staying near Paris, for reasons I never quite understood at the time, and probably still don’t. I think my mother felt safer starting fresh every couple of years. Though my father never pursued custody, I think she worried he would come after her, even though he never did.
I didn’t see him again for seven years.
My mother was my best friend, and she did her best to always make me feel loved. I never resented the fact that we left my father, never resented leaving our life behind. We did everything together, and I credit her for every good quality I possess. She wasn’t religious, but she was agoodperson. The kind of person you want around you—beautiful, cheerful, and optimistic, despite what had happened to her. We traveled around France a lot, but since we didn’t have a lot of money, that was the extent of our adventures. It didn’t matter, because at the time, it felt like the best adventure in the world. It didn’t really hit me how much she gave up until she died in a car accident when I was twenty, and I learned how many jobs she’d struggled to keep over the years as a single parent.
After my mother died, my father reached out to me. I suppose the shock of her death had an effect on him, because he went to seminary school and was ordained a priest two years later. I saw him occasionally after that, thinking that perhaps he was a changed man.
Turns out, he wasn’t.
I dealt with my mother’s death by throwing myself into schooling full force, earning a double bachelor’s degree in finance and history. It was easier to keep moving, keep going forward. It felt like I was honoring her in that way. I interviewed at HSBC right before graduating, moved to Paris, and that was my life for several years—working, dating around, and living in the 10th arrondissement. I figured I’d eventually meet a woman, get married, and settle down. I was still young when I met Lily—only twenty-eight. And then I saw Evelyn that same summer. My life, to put it simply, just changed. It was like a scene break—once it happened, once I saw her, I could never possibly fathom going back to the man I was. And now, four years later?
I turn around and look at her, sleeping so peacefully, so quietly. She has no idea—no idea that everything I do, every action I take, every decision set in place, is all forher. The Offering tonight, and what it could mean for me, for my life—I’m risking it all for her. If I don’t live to see another day, if we never get our happy ending, I will die happy knowing I made love to her last night, knowing I’m saving so many people in her honor.
A wave of regret washes through me, and for a second, I second guess myself. What if we could run away, what if I could back out tonight and let everything fall as it may? Hayes would probably understand, given his past. I have money. We could go anywhere. Be together. Just the two of us. But I know that’s not the path I’ll choose. I know myself, and maybe it’s a product of being my father’s son, or maybe it’s because I can’t imagine putting anyone else in harm’s way… once I make a promise, once I come to a decision, the deal is done in my mind.
Whatever happens tonight, I know she’ll be safe—with or without me.
Evelyn stirs, stretching out her limbs as she yawns and pulls the blanket up to her chin. When she opens her eyes, she doesn’t have to look for me. She finds me—her gaze lingering on my face, a lazy smile on her lips. Like her soul knew where I was in proximity to hers.
“Hi,” she says, her voice raspy.
I wander over to her, completely unfettered by my nakedness. Why hide now? I’d been inside of her, and she’d lived inside of me for years.
“Hi,” I answer, bending down to give her a kiss.
“What time is it?” she croaks, sitting up. She must have the same thoughts as me, because she doesn’t attempt to cover herself. She bares it all and lays it out, throwing the covers off and stretching her arms above her head.
“Just past seven.” I look at her, letting my eyes drink everything in. Her pale skin—so translucent that I can see her veins. The red roots growing under the strawberry blonde color she tried to cover it with. I miss the red, but I have to admit, I don’t mind the blonde. Her slate blue eyes, downcast and sleepy. Her eyelashes dark and feathered across her cheek. Her long neck, where I can see her throat bob as she watches me take her in. Her breasts—large, soft, with small, pink nipples. Wide hips, and the best damn legs I ever did see—legs I can grab onto. It was as if everything—every single atom of her body—was made specifically for me.
“Feels earlier,” she says softly, looking out the window with a dazed sort of expression.
I climb into bed with her, pulling the covers over us and her body close to mine. I wrap my arms around her so that her head is resting on my chest. I’m not normally so affectionate, especially the morning after sex. But the thought of tonight going awry makes me want to soak it all up, hold onto her petal soft skin for as long as I can.
“Why?” she asks quietly, and I know the question she wants to ask without having to.
“I didn’t pity you by saving you that day, Evelyn. You’ve been so conditioned to people only wanting you for a reason, that you couldn’t—can’t—swallow the notion that someone likes you for who you are. For your sense of humor. For the freckle above your lips. For the way you make your tea and the way you love that disgusting marshmallow stuff,” I add, laughing.
