Roman stood with Keegan and Marisol at the edge of the garden, watching the light fade. The vows would have to be quick, Keegan had warned him earlier, which sounded perfectly fine to him. He had been shocked by how supportive and excited everyone had been about his plans. He thought for sure one of them would say, No, there are more important things at hand, Roman. Look around you! There’s no time for a wedding.
He had been met by the opposite, as if Attie and Marisol and Keegan were eager for something to lift the heaviness of their spirits.
He continued to wait for Iris, and he didn’t know what to expect, but the moment he saw her walk through the doors with her hair swept up, adorned with flowers … he felt a rush of pride. Of immense joy, so deep there was no end to it, nor a way to measure it. He felt it break across his face in a wide smile, create a skip in his breath.
Attie brought her to him over the stone pathway, and there was a brightness in Iris’s eyes he had never seen before. It seemed like he waited hours for her, and yet it only felt like a breath had passed when Iris reached for his hand.
She was warm, flushed from her shower. Her palm was like silk in his.
Roman studied her face. He wanted to memorize it, the way she looked in the dusk. We are really doing this, he thought with a shiver. They were getting married in their jumpsuits on the eve of battle, six hundred kilometers away from home.
He didn’t know why she suddenly began to blur. Why her edges melted before him, as if she were a vision. A dream about to fade. Not until he blinked and tears slipped down his face.
He hadn’t cried in years. He hadn’t cried since Del. He had kept his feelings tightly locked away since then, as if it were wrong to set them free. As if they were a weakness, bound to ruin him.
But now that his tears were falling, it was like a dam had been breached. A small crack, and those old feelings of guilt flowed forth. He wanted to let them go; he didn’t want to bring all this baggage into his marriage with Iris. But he didn’t know how to be free of it, and he realized she would simply have to take him as he was.
“Roman,” Iris whispered tenderly. She rose on her toes and framed his face. She wiped his tears, and he let them fall until he could see her again, vividly.
And he thought, What have you done to me?
“Are we ready?” Keegan asked.
He had nearly forgotten about Keegan with her little book of vows, and Marisol with the two rings, and Attie with her basket of flowers.
But the stars were emerging overhead. The sun had retreated behind the hill; the clouds bled gold. It was almost dark.
“Yes,” he whispered, never taking his eyes from Iris.
“Take each other’s hands,” Keegan said. “And repeat after me.”
Iris let her hands slip back into his. Her fingers were damp from his tears.
The vows they spoke to each other were ancient. Words once carved in stone during a time when all the gods lived and roamed the earth.
“I pray that my days will be long at your side. Let me fill and satisfy every longing in your soul. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night. Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, until our bones return to dust. Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”
“Beautiful,” Keegan said, turning to her wife. “Now for the rings.”
Marisol had found these rings in her jewelry box. She had told Roman that the silver band that had once been her aunt’s would fit Iris. And the copper ring was for him, to wear on his smallest finger. Just until he could get them proper matching bands.
Iris’s brows raised in surprise when Marisol gave her the copper ring. She obviously hadn’t expected they would still get married this day, let alone have rings to exchange, and she slipped it on his pinkie. Roman quickly returned the favor, sliding the silver onto her finger. It was a bit loose, but it would do for now.
He liked to see it on her hand, gleaming in the light.
“And now to conclude our service,” Keegan said, shutting the book, “seal your vows with a kiss.”
“At last,” Roman said, despite the fact their vows had taken only half a minute.
Iris laughed. Gods, he loved the sound, and he drew her closer. He kissed her thoroughly; his tongue brushed against hers, and he reveled in the slight gasp she gave him.
His blood was pounding, but they still had to eat dinner. Marisol had insisted on it. And so he broke the kiss.
Attie cheered, tossing flowers over them. Roman watched the petals cascade like snow, catching in their hair. Iris smiled, weaving her fingers with his.
He thought about who he had been before he had met her. Before she had stepped into the Gazette. Before her letter had crossed his wardrobe door. He thought about who he wanted to be now that her hand was in his.
He would always be grateful for his decision that night, not so long ago. The night when he decided to write her back.
Marisol sat them down, side by side, at the table. Iris was hungry, but she was also so excited and nervous that she wasn’t sure how much she’d be able to eat.
“Soup and bread tonight,” Marisol said, setting two bowls down before them. “Simple fare, but it should be enough, I hope?”
“This is perfect, Marisol,” Iris said. “Thank you.”
Not long after that, soldiers began to file in, partaking in a quick meal before they returned to their stations. The B and B was soon hot and crowded, brimming with candlelight and low murmurs. Iris continued to sit close beside Roman, her hand in his, resting on his thigh.
“I hear someone got married tonight,” one of the soldiers said with a smile.
Iris blushed when Roman held up his hand. “I’m the lucky one.”
That set off a round of cheers and claps, and Iris was amazed to find this felt normal, like any other night. And yet tomorrow was Enva’s Day, the end of the week. Anything could happen, and Iris tried to bury her worries. She wanted to simply enjoy the present. This was the life she wanted—slow and easy and vibrant, surrounded by people she loved.
If only she could bottle this moment. If only she could drink from it in the days to come, to remember this feeling of warmth and wholeness and joy. As if all of her pieces had come back together, far stronger than they had been before she had broken.
She realized this was her family now. That there were bonds that ran deeper than blood.
All too soon, the B and B fell quiet.
The soldiers had come and gone. The last of the soup and bread had been devoured, and the dishes were sitting in the wash bin. Candles burned on the kitchen table; the light flickered over Roman’s face as he leaned closer to Iris, whispering in her ear, “Are you ready for bed?”
“Yes,” she said, and her heart pounded. “But perhaps we should wash the dishes first?”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Marisol cried, aghast. “The two of you will go on to bed and enjoy your night.”
“But, Marisol,” Iris was beginning to protest when Roman stood, tugging her upward.
“I won’t hear of it, Iris,” Marisol insisted.
“Nor will I,” Attie said, crossing her arms. “And besides, Roman’s room is ready for you both.”
“What?” Iris panted.
Attie only winked before turning to the wash bin. Marisol shooed them into the hall, where they passed Keegan returning from a quick errand.
The captain gave them a nod and a smirk, and Iris was suddenly sweating as she began to ascend the stairs with Roman.
“Sorry, I’m quite slow,” he said, wincing as he took another step.
Iris held his hand, waiting for him to catch up.
“Do your wounds still hurt?” she asked.
“Not too much,” he replied. “I just don’t want to pull another stitch.”
His response worried her. She had an inkling he was hiding how much his leg bothered him, and she decided that they would have to be careful that night.
They reached Roman’s room. Iris braced herself, uncertain what she would encounter. She stepped inside and gasped.
A host of candles were lit, filling the room with romantic light. Stray flowers had been dropped along the floor and on the bed, which was still a pallet since the mattress was at the infirmary. But it looked like Attie had added a few more blankets to the pile, creating a soft place for them to sleep.
“It’s beautiful,” Iris whispered.
“And much appreciated,” Roman said, shutting the door. “I sadly can take no credit for this. It was all Attie.”
“Then I’ll have to thank her tomorrow,” Iris said, turning to glance at Roman.
His gaze was already fixed on her.
Iris swallowed, feeling awkward. She didn’t know if she should go ahead and undress, or maybe he wanted to undress her. Sometimes his face was hard to read, as if he wore a mask, and before she could reach for the top button of her jumpsuit, he spoke.
“I have a request, Winnow.”
“Gods, Kitt,” she said before she could stop herself. “What now?”
The corner of his mouth lifted, amused. “Come and sit next to me on our bed.” He walked past her and knelt on the pile of blankets, careful of his leg as he situated himself with his back against the wall.
Iris followed but chose to unlace and remove her boots before she stepped on the blankets. She helped Roman with his, and so that was the first article of clothing removed between them. Their shoes.
She settled beside him. His heat began to seep into her side, and she realized how brilliant this was going to be, sleeping next to him every night. She would never get cold again.
“All right, Kitt,” she said. “What is your request?”
“I would like you to read something to me.”
“Oh? And what is this something?”
“One of your letters.”
That caught her by surprise. She cracked her knuckles but thought it was only fair of her to return the favor to him. “Yes, all right. But only one. So choose wisely.”
He smiled down at her, his hand reaching to the floor beside the pallet.
“You keep my letters at your bedside?” she asked.
“I reread most of them every night.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Here it is. This is the one,” he said, handing her a very wrinkled piece of paper.
She smoothed the creases from the letter, skimming a few lines. Ah yes. This one. Iris cleared her throat, but she glanced up at Roman before she began. He was intently watching her.
“There’s one stipulation, Kitt.”
“I can’t look at you while you read,” he surmised, remembering his own dilemma.
Iris nodded and he shut his eyes, leaning his head against the wall.
She returned her gaze to the paper. She began to read, and her voice was deep and smoky, as if she were pulling the words from her past. From a night when she had been sitting on the floor of her room.
“I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, ‘You will miss so much by being so guarded.’”
She paused, emotion rising in her throat. She didn’t dare look at Roman. She didn’t know if his eyes were open or still shut as she continued, reaching the end.
“All right, now I’ve let the words spill out. I’ve given you a piece of armor, I suppose. But I don’t think you’ll mind,” she finished, folding the letter back up. “There. Does that satisfy you, Kitt?”
He took the letter back. “Yes. Although there is another one I’d like you to read. Where did I put it…?”
“Another one? At this rate, you’ll have to read a second letter to me, then.”
“I accept those terms. This one is quite short, and it might be my favorite.” He found it, holding the paper between them.
She was curious. She accepted it and was just about to glance over this letter when a firm knock rattled the door, startling them both. Her stomach dropped when she imagined all the reasons why someone might be interrupting them. Dacre has been spotted. It’s time to retreat. It’s the beginning of the end.
She met Roman’s gaze. She saw the same dread in his countenance. That their time had been cut short. They had managed to speak their vows but never had the chance to fulfill them.
“Roman? Iris?” Marisol’s voice called through the wood. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Keegan has issued a blackout for the town. No electricity and no candlelight for the rest of the night, I’m afraid.”
Roman was frozen for a second. And then he said, “Yes, of course! Not a problem, Marisol.”
Iris scrambled to her feet, blowing out the countless candles Attie had lit for them. The flames died, one by one, until only one candle remained burning, held in Roman’s hand.
Iris returned to their bed. She sat facing him this time, the letter still in her fingers.
“Read it to me quickly, Iris,” he said.
A shiver coursed through her. She felt like sugar melting in tea. She dropped her gaze to the letter and softly read, “I’ll return most likely when the war is over. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice.”
She looked at Roman again. Their gazes held while he blew out the candle. The darkness rushed in, surrounding them. And yet Iris had never seen so many things before.
She whispered, “I want to touch you.”
“Now that wasn’t in the letter,” he said wryly. “I would have framed it on the wall had it been.”
“Alas,” she countered. “I wanted to write it to you then. I didn’t, though, because I was afraid.”
He was quiet for a beat. “What were you afraid of?”
“My feelings for you. The things I wanted.”
“And now?”
She reached out and found his ankle. Slowly, her fingers drifted up to his knee. She could feel the bandages beneath his jumpsuit; she could see his wounds in her mind, the way they would scar. She said, “I think you’ve made me brave, Kitt.”
His breath escaped him, a tenuous unspooling, as if he had been holding it in years for her. “My Iris,” he said, “there is no question that you are the brave one, all on your own. You were writing to me for weeks before I roused the courage to write you back. You walked into the Gazette and took me and my ego on without a blink. You were the one who came to the front lines, unafraid to look into the ugly face of war long before I did. I don’t know who I would be without you, but you have made me in all ways better than I ever was or could have ever hoped to be.”
“I think you and I are simply better together, Kitt,” she said, and her hand traveled to his thigh.
“You took the words right from my mouth,” he replied with a slight gasp. She felt him shift; the blankets pulled at her knees. She thought he was retreating from her until he said, “Come closer, Iris.”
She moved forward, reaching for him. His hands found her at last, touching her face, the slope of her shoulders. He drew her to him, and after momentarily getting her foot caught in one of the blankets, she straddled his lap.
Kissing him in the dark was entirely different from kissing him in the light. When the sun had gilded them hours ago, they had been eager and clumsy and hungry. But now, in the shadows of night, they were languid and thorough and curious.
She was bold in the darkness. She drew her lips across his jaw; she pressed her mouth to his throat, to the wild beat of his pulse. She drank the scent of his skin; she slid her tongue along his, tasting his sighs. She noticed how he touched her in return—reverently, mindfully. His hands would come to rest on the front of her ribs, his fingers splayed as if yearning for more, and yet they didn’t rise any higher or slide any lower.
Iris wanted his touch. She didn’t know why he was hesitating until she felt his fingers find the top button of her jumpsuit, and he whispered, “May I?”
“Yes, Kitt,” she said, shivering as he began to unbutton them, one by one, in the dark. She felt the cool air wash over her as he slid her jumpsuit down, off her shoulders. The fabric gathered at her waist, and she waited. She waited for him to touch her, and he took his time, tracing the dip of her collarbone, the curve of her bare back, the straps of her bra. His hands came to rest on her ribs again. She was trembling with the anticipation.
“Is this all right, Iris?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and she closed her eyes as his hands began to learn the shape of her.
No one had ever worshipped her like this. She felt his breath on her skin, his lips hovering above her heart. He kissed her once, twice, softly and then roughly, and she reached up, to remove the flowers, the pearls, and the braids from her hair. It fell free in long waves down her back, still damp and fragrant, and Roman’s fingers instantly wove within it.
“You’re beautiful, Iris,” he said.
She began to unfasten his jumpsuit, desperate to feel his skin against hers. One of the buttons tore loose, tumbling to the blankets at their knees.
Roman chuckled. “Careful. This is the only jumpsuit I have.”
“I’ll repair it tomorrow,” Iris promised, even though she didn’t know what would come at sunrise. She cast those worries aside, though, as she undressed Roman.
They were both anxious to be free of the garments that had held them through countless troubles. Once liberated, they tossed their raiment across the room with hushed laughter. And the world melted into something new and molten.
Iris couldn’t see him with her eyes, but she did with her hands. With her fingertips and her lips. She explored every dip and hollow of his body, claiming it as her own.
He is mine, she thought, the words a pleasant shock to her soul. I am his.
Iris laid him down beneath her, mindful of his leg, even if he swore his wounds weren’t hurting him. She didn’t know what to fully expect—nor did he—and it was awkward for a moment until Roman’s hands touched her—a warm reassurance on her hips—and she held her breath deep in her chest as she moved. The discomfort sharpened but soon dulled, blooming into something luminous as they fully came together, tangled in the sheets. As they found a rhythm between them, one that only they could know. She felt safe with him, skin to skin. She felt full and complete; she felt the wholeness in the dark, this weaving together of vows and body and choice.
“Iris,” he whispered when she had nearly reached the end of herself.
It was agony; it was bliss.
She could hardly breathe as she gave herself up to them both.
I am his, she thought as he suddenly sat forward to hold her close, their hearts aligned. She felt how he trembled in her arms.
“Roman.” She spoke his name like a promise, her fingers lost in his hair.
A sound broke from him. It could have been a sob or a gasp. She wanted to see his face, but there was no light between them save for the fire hiding in their skin.
“Roman,” she said again.
He kissed her, and she tasted salt on his lips. The wave began to ebb; the pleasure turned leaden, making their limbs heavy.
She held him as the warmth faded. Her thoughts were bright, illuminating the dark.
And he is mine.
They lay entwined for a long while afterward, his fingers tracing the wild waves of her hair. Iris had never loved a silence more. Her ear was pressed to his chest; she listened to the steady beat of his heart. An endless, faithful song.
His fingers eventually drifted down her arm to find her hand, leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake.
“Tomorrow,” Roman said, lacing his fingers with hers, “I want your hand to be in mine, no matter what comes. Just like this. We have to stay together, Iris.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. Little did he know she had already planned this. To stay close to him. To be ready to support his weight all the way to the lorry if he needed her. To keep him alive.
She opened her eyes to the night and drolly said, “It’ll be quite hard to get rid of me now, Kitt.”
His laughter was beautiful in the dark.
