Free Web NovelChapter 153: Chapter 153 - A Kiss
Malcolm tightens the bandage around her neck, fingers steady as he wraps the cloth and pulls it firm against the shallow cut. The pressure stings, then settles into a dull heat.
He ties it off cleanly and smooths the edge with his thumb.
Iyisha sits on the edge of the bed, palms resting against sheets that feel too soft, too smooth for a world like this. The room is modern. Clean lines. Pale walls.
Furniture that looks expensive and untouched. It makes her feel out of place, like dirt tracked into something preserved.
She watches his hands as he works, then lifts her eyes to his face. The beard has grown in thick along his jaw, darker than before, sharpening his mouth and making him look harder than he already is. It suits him. Makes him look meaner. Bolder.
Her hand rises without permission.
She touches his jaw.
He stills, just slightly.
The stubble brushes against her fingertips as she traces the line of it, slow and careful, feeling the shape of him under her palm. He does not move away. She slides her fingers upward along the straight bridge of his nose, studying the clear skin there. He only ever uses the soap in his bag. Nothing else. She does not understand how that is enough.
Her thumb lowers toward his mouth. She hesitates, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on her knuckles. For a moment she thinks about leaning in.
A door closes downstairs.
Marybeth.
The image hits her hard. Reya on the pavement. Eyes open. Still. Looking past her.
Iyisha’s hand drops to her lap.
Malcolm finishes adjusting the bandage and presses two fingers lightly against it, checking the tension. His touch is firm and brief before he pulls back.
"What if I died?" she asked, the words coming out low, surprising herself.
He reaches for the medical kit and zips it shut. The sound fills the quiet room.
Reya was lucky. Marybeth was there to bury her, to grieve her, to say her name out loud. Iyisha’s sister is missing. Mary and Ester are far away. The only person beside her now is him.
She watches the side of his face, waiting.
"You didn’t," he says.
He stands, taking his weight off the mattress. The bed shifts back into place.
Iyisha presses her fingers against the bandage at her throat, feeling the steady pulse beneath it, and keeps her eyes on him as if the answer she wants is still somewhere in the room.
She keeps her fingers on the bandage, feeling her pulse under the cloth.
"Will you cry," she asks.
Her voice is so low she almost swallows the words.
Malcolm has already stepped back. He leans against the wall near the window, one shoulder resting on it, arms loose at his sides. He looks at her.
"Do you want me to?"
The room goes quiet.
Iyisha lifts her eyes to his. He does not look away. His gaze is steady. Dark. Unblinking.
Her heart starts pounding, hard enough that she feels it in her throat. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She had not thought that far. She only wanted to know.
Does she want him to.
If he cried, it would mean she mattered. It would mean losing her would break something in him. The thought tightens her chest.
"Yeah," she says, unsure.
The word hangs there between them.
She watches his face carefully, searching for a reaction, for a shift, for something she can read. Wanting him to mourn her feels dangerous. Like stepping past a line neither of them has named.
Malcolm’s mouth curves slightly.
It is small. Soft. The first time she has seen him smile like that.
Her breath catches. Her heartbeat pounds harder, loud in her ears.
She looks away first.
Too fast.
Her face burns. Heat climbs up her neck into her cheeks. Her palms turn damp against the sheets and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air heavier.
"You said you’d take me with you even if I got bitten. Right?" she asks, trying to lift the tone, trying to pull them back to safer ground.
He lets out a quiet chuckle.
"You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"
She looks at him again and smiles despite herself.
"I feel like you’re talking more than usual."
His smirk does not fade.
She bites her lip.
"Was I?" he asks.
"Hm." She pushes off the bed and steps toward him.
He is still leaning against the wall, shoulder braced, one foot slightly forward. Up close she notices his hair has grown longer too, brushing near his collar. Too long for his liking. It makes him look rough. Unkempt.
She stops in front of him.
"Well, sometimes you talk more. Like the first time we met."
He looks down at her. He does not move, but she feels it when his body goes still, muscles tightening as she closes the distance.
"Now you’re more silent," she says softly. "Less words."
She leans in, her chest brushing his as she reaches up and runs her fingers through his hair. The strands slide between her fingers. Warm. Thick.
His jaw ticks.
She notices.
"Maybe because of you. You don’t leave much room for words." He murmurs.
His eyes drop to her mouth. She sees his throat move as he swallows.
She smirks.
"Was I stressing you too much?"
"Hm," he answers.
He leans down slightly, closing the space between them.
She smiles when he gets closer, her hand still in his hair.
"Maybe you’ll talk more if I make you relax."
His eyes flicker once.
"Maybe," he says.
His fingers tighten slightly at her neck, careful of the bandage, and he pulls her in.
The kiss is not soft.
It lands firm, controlled, his mouth pressing against hers with intent. Iyisha inhales sharply against him, her hand still tangled in his hair. For a second she freezes, surprised by the force of it, then her fingers grip tighter.
He does not rush.
His other hand slides to her waist, steadying her as her body shifts forward fully into his. She feels the wall solid behind him, feels the strength in his frame as he holds her there. His lips move slowly against hers, testing, claiming space without asking.
Her heart pounds so hard it almost hurts.
She parts her lips.
He exhales through his nose and deepens the kiss, not frantic, not messy, just certain. His hand at her waist tightens, pulling her closer until there is no space left between them. The room feels smaller again, but this time it is because of him.
Iyisha’s free hand presses against his chest. She can feel the steady beat beneath her palm. Slower than hers. Grounded.
He tilts his head slightly, adjusting, his mouth still firm against hers. The stubble on his jaw brushes her skin. Rough. Real.
She makes a small sound against his mouth before she can stop it.
His fingers at her neck flex once, then slide down carefully, avoiding the wound, settling at the curve where her shoulder meets her throat. The pressure is possessive without being harsh.
When he finally pulls back, it is only an inch.
His forehead hovers close to hers. His breath warm on her lips.
He does not speak.
Neither does she.
