Chapter Six - The Crushed Butterflies
Dell
I can see it now, the way she acted was a reflection of her inner turmoil. I know why I have taken a liking to her. She reminds me of how I was a few centuries ago. Back in my own youth, when I was trying to find my place, my identity. It is a silent, rambunctious rebellion that almost everyone goes through: humans, witches, dragons, etc.
In the 732 years of my life, there are only a few things I have done that I would label as “difficult.” Not looking at her as she sat in my bed was one of them. As she stood at my door, ready to leave, I looked away. I didn’t call her back. I know she would have stopped if I did, but it would be a passing fancy for a girl of her temperament. If I gave her what she wanted, it would make it easier for her to leave me, to go away and never turn back. I remembered what my grandfather had said to me:
“If you really love someone or something, let it go. If it returns, it is yours to keep - if it doesn’t, it was never yours in the first place.”
I knew what I had to do. I let her go. I had to let her go and not think about it, like setting a bird free. There is no point in hoping it will come back, but if it does…. I wish she comes back.
I had better control myself. Everything seems too cliché, this sudden love, this aching for her. It’s like a romance from a third-class novel. But it only takes that one person to shake your foundation to the core. I know now that she would either make my life heaven or destroy it.
“Control, Delindor,” I tell myself. “Control.”
At nights, I smell her in my bed. Her outline on the bed fades, but her scent remains. In my sleep, I reach for her, only to find I am reaching for a phantom. I see her standing in the door, laughing smugly as she points a finger at me. One moment she is there, the next she is gone.
Then I remember that she forgot her broom. I start waiting for her to show up, to ask for her broom. All I want is to see her just one more time, take in her serene beauty. Cyrene—how can a person with such a calm name harbor such storms inside. I block her out of my head, but my heart never stops aching for her. I sneak into Greystone Manor everyday to find her, to get her to pour the love potion down my throat and take me out of the club and run along the streets. But she is nowhere to be found. I wonder if her love potion has actually worked, if dragons are not as immune as they believe they are. Is it love, lust or infatuation? Only she holds the answer.
And then she suddenly appears at my door at two in the morning, beating the door with her bare knuckles.
“Who is it?” I ask, groggily getting out of bed.
“It’s me,” she says. “Cyrene.”
I recognize her voice instantly and walk calmly to the door. I can’t have her know that I am on to her game.
“What do you want?” I ask gruffly.
“I just came for my broom,” she says. She is wearing black pajamas—Black, the witch favorite. They don't choose it, it is in their nature. She looks tired, her eyes droopy like she is straight out of the bed.
“Come in,” I say, hoping she would come in.
“I have to be somewhere,” she says, tapping her foot impatiently. I fetch her broom and hand it to her.
“Anything else,” I ask, yawning.
“No,” she says. “And thanks,” she smiles, her teeth small, tiny, perfectly aligned. “Actually, yes,” she says, reaching into her purse.
“Eh?”
“There’s this fashion show, my first show,” she says. “Here’s a pass, come if you like,” she presses a pass into my hand. I caress the back of her hand with my thumb. “It’s my debut, actually.”
“I will try to make it.”
She turns around to leave and takes two steps, then pauses. I stand still in the door frame.
“Oh heck,” she says, turning around, her arms wide open as she runs into me. Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my back. She clings to me with the same ache as I have for her. She parts her luscious lips and fixes them on mine.
I carry her easily and turn back around, kick the door shut and take her to my bed. She is still clinging to me as we fall on the bed. She sits on top of me, my tongue exploring her mouth, her long fingers reaching under my tee, pushing it up. She breaks the kiss and tosses my shirt on the floor, then plasters a hard kiss on my lips again. She gets up, still straddling me and smacks her lips. I hook my finger into her tee shirt and pull, revealing the half moons of her beautiful breasts, heavy and pressed together, a sliver between them.
She smiles. I grab her shirt and pull it over her head, then push her on her back and get on top. I know what she needs. She arches her neck and bites my lip. I grab her breasts, my fingers caressing her skin, my thumb twirling around her hard nipples. A moan escapes her lips.
I kiss her on the mouth, on her neck, going down slowly, from her breasts to her stomach. I bite her pajama bottoms and pull it down. She pulls down her panties.
“Whoa, easy there,” I say, pushing her hands back.