The bedroom was a picture of relaxation. The fire in the hearth was burning low now, after being neglected most of the night, casting golden, writhing shadows over the bed in a pleasant, soothing manner. The air was warm, not stifling; a perfect temperature for the shedding of clothing, in fact, and softly scented with hints of lilac, honey, and sweet spices. A subtle undertone of something else lingered. A more carnal scent it was, sweat mingled with the unmistakable tinge of human passion.
The woman lay on her side, her pale flesh aglow in the gentle light offered from the fire. Deep, silky waves of chestnut lay strewn over her shoulders and chest, faintly damp with rapidly-cooling perspiration. Her head was propped up to avoid the temptation of sleep, and the dark pools of her doe-like eyes were set on the figure beside her.
The man was as deeply unconscious as any could hope to be, without wandering too close to death. The draught she'd given him had been carefully measured, for her gaze had begun sizing him from the moment he entered the house. His arm was hooked snugly around her waist, and even in slumber, the strength in his sinewy muscles was impressive.
A soft rain had begun to fall not long after he'd collapsed in blissful exhaustion. The gentle pattering on the roof, against the windows, tempted her even further towards laying her weary head down on his chest and closing her eyes. But she did not give in. Instead, she studied the man, with his raven hair, softly waved around his face, and the dark beard adorning his lips, which now sat slightly parted as he breathed. Her hand rested against the side of his neck in a manner that might appear tender, but the faint smile on her features was drawn from the reassurance that his pulse was still strong and steady.
She murmured words to him as he slept. Words of comfort, peace, and contentment. He had come through her door with a cocky smile and a swagger to his demeanor, but his blue eyes had been shadowed with lack of sleep, and his smile was like a mask painted over his true visage. When she asked what he sought from her, "to be free" was what he replied. She had offered comfort and release to many anguished people, yet there was something different about this man. Something vastly, incredibly, and frighteningly different. He wanted to give as well as take. His eyes had pleaded with hers, asking to be granted admittance past her own iron-clad facade, and as the evening played out, she began to understand. He had not come seeking a selfish indulgence or hasty escape from the world, but rather a connection with another soul in which he could be utterly and completely safe.
It was not the sort of request she was used to. Her expertise lay in conversation, in drawing someone out, in subtle scents, herbs, and concoctions to slow the pulse, quiet the mind, and free the senses, and the occasional indulgence in intimate affections, if she deemed it suitable. What she had not expected was the wild fervor that filled his dilated pupils, the piercing agony in his eyes that had begged for something from her that she didn't know how to give. She had been well prepared for offering many things to him. What she had not been prepared for, was how desperately he wanted to give back, and see her slowly undone, opening her heart and mind to him in return. It was clear now, in hindsight, as most of life's revelations were.
This was not the first night where she would lay awake and troubled, musing on her existence, her decisions, and her fate. Nor the first time she would feel the imprint of a visitor on her heart, long after they'd departed. But this was the life she had chosen. A life of solitude, darkness, fleeting encounters, and a staunch belief that it was safer to give than to ever need anything in return.
