Roman became very still, his eyes riveted to the nightscape beyond the window. For an excruciating moment, Iris thought he wasn’t going to answer her. But perhaps she didn’t need his words; she could see it in his face when he met her gaze. He did recognize her, although it seemed pieces were still missing.
“I’ve dreamt of you,” he said. “I think you and I were friends before I left for the war cause.”
“Friends?”
“Or enemies.”
“You and I were never enemies, Kitt. Not exactly.”
“Then were we something more?”
Iris was quiet. She could feel the ache in her throat, how it brimmed with words she yearned to say but should probably swallow. In the end, she spoke them—in a husky whisper that he leaned closer to hear.
“Yes. I’m your wife.”
Roman reeled as if she had struck him. His eyes went wide and dark, a stark contrast to his pale face, and Iris couldn’t bear to see his flicker of disbelief.
She turned and clambered out the window, hitting her shin on the frame. The pain was an echo as she prepared to drop to the porch roof, the world feeling off-kilter, the air too sharp in her lungs. She was about to fall when a hand grasped her arm.
The heat of his fingers seeped through her sleeve like sunlight. Iris reveled in the feel of his hand, holding her steady as if she straddled two worlds.
That hand had once caressed her in the darkness, the one and only night they had ever shared together. That hand had once worn a ring, a symbol of their vows, and had typed countless letters to her, words that had fed and comforted and strengthened her. That hand was terribly familiar; she would have known it was him touching her, even if her eyes had been closed.
Iris exhaled, tasting salt and the metallic zing of blood on her lips.
Slowly, her gaze drifted back to meet his.
Roman’s eyes were still dark as he stared up at her, but there was no glint of doubt. No scathing disbelief. There was only the shine of hunger as if Iris had just roused him from a long slumber.
His fingers trailed down her arm, following the curve of her elbow until his hand found hers, his thumb touching her wedding band. He softly gasped as if in pain, but before Iris could respond, he tugged on her. While her face dipped down, his tilted upward, until their gazes aligned and there was nothing more than a breath between their mouths.
“Iris,” he said. “Iris, I—”
He was interrupted by gunshots, sounding off in the distance.
Iris startled and crouched lower on the windowsill. She envisioned Tobias and Attie, waiting for her on the side of the road. She needed to go, and yet it felt like she was about to tear her heart up by its roots.
“Come with me, Kitt,” she whispered, tightening her hold on his hand. “Come with me.”
Roman glanced away. She could see the struggle within him. The perspiration that gleamed at his brow, as if his body was under tremendous strain.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely. “I need to stay.”
Iris nodded, a protest dissolving on her tongue. Tears pricked her eyes, turning the world into a blurry haze. She turned to flee but Roman held on in a white-knuckled grip, as if he would evanesce into smoke the moment he let her go.
“Look at me.” His voice was pitched low. Confident and compelling. The way he had sounded before the war had come between them. “I’ll find you again when the time is right. I swear it.”
“You had better,” she countered.
The corner of his mouth quirked. A smile, but it was fleeting. “And when I do, you can ask me for the favor I owe you.”
Iris frowned. What favor? She didn’t remember them ever speaking about this. Roman must have read her face; he began to say more but was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. A sharp call that emerged from the stairwell.
“Correspondent? Report in.”
“Run, Iris,” Roman begged as he let her go.
Her palm felt bereft without his until she flexed her fingers. She saw her ring catch the light of the torch.
Iris had never removed it. The band had remained on her finger since Roman had first guided it there, gleaming at eventide in a garden. But she didn’t hesitate now; she slid the ring off and gave it to him.
“Keep it,” she said. “A token to remember me by.”
Roman said nothing in reply. But his fingers curled around the ring, hiding it like a secret in his palm.
Iris turned away. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move as she let herself fall into the darkness.
{23}
Incandescent Hearts
Iris hit the porch roof with a clatter. Her right ankle smarted from the drop as she managed to tuck and roll, catching herself before she found the edge. The thatch cut her palm but the pain was like a flare, guiding her focus as she perched on the eaves.
She was tempted to glance up at the window. To look at Roman one last time.
Iris resisted, keeping her eyes forward instead. There was a field directly before her, tall grass bending to the sough of the wind. She could see the high road off to her left, a shadow in the moonlight, as well as Hawthorne Route, which cut through the meadow like a slithering snake.
It was a good distance away, but she was confident she could escape using the cover of the grass until she reached safety. Then she could sprint back to Tobias and Attie.
Iris scrunched her eyes shut for a second before letting herself fall over the roof’s edge.
She landed on her feet, her ankle throbbing again from the impact, but it wasn’t a long drop. Stumbling, she reached out to find her balance. Two rain barrels sat in the grass nearby, and she ducked down to hide between them, assessing her surroundings.
A minute passed. Then another. Iris made herself wait. She was worried there might be a patrol that she hadn’t noticed yet, and no sooner did the thought cross her mind than a door opened behind her. She heard boots clipping on the stone pavers, heading in her direction.
Iris kept close to the barrels, using them as a shield to avoid being spotted. She watched from the corner of her eye as a tall shadow strode past her.
Again, she waited. The soldier returned, as if he had been assigned to watch this plot of ground.
Iris counted his steps the next time he passed, to see how long she had with his back turned toward her. Then she took a hard swallow and forced herself forward. She crept through the grass as quickly as she could manage, eyes trained ahead to where she knew the route lay. She made it all of ten steps before someone spotted her.
“Halt!”
Iris instinctively froze until she remembered Roman’s voice. The last words he had said, whisper soft against her parted lips.
Run, Iris.
She broke into a sprint.
“I said HALT!”
It was too late to hide. Iris pushed herself faster, harder. The grass whisked against her legs; the night air was frigid against her damp skin. She felt like wings had unfurled from her shoulder blades, like nothing could stop her, until rapid gunfire chased her heels.
Iris tripped, her blood humming with fear.
Somehow, she managed to stay upright, dodging the shots. Bullets peppered the ground to her left, so close that she could smell the pierced loam. Panic coursed through her like a river breaking a dam.