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SHH, HIDE CORDELIA

Cordelia Nightshade is a 23-year-old human girl who discovers the truth about her family and clan - they are not human. To love eternally, she has to die, to die she has to live and to live... she has to learn the difference between Myth and Truth - if there is any. As life would have it, the voices she's heard in her head since birth has a purpose far more sinister than just being annoying. When Cordelia meets the big, dark-haired Allan Maine, she turns the entire immortal world upside down - breaking all the rules and changing history as they know it. This is not what you expect from a love story - it is Certainly what you expect from a love story until you reach the darker side - where the reality clash with mythology. Where do you draw the line and how much is possible to endure? Excerpt: I gaze up and notice the colors lashing out of an angry paintbrush over the horizon. The knot in my stomach is a vivid notification, reminding me of being as irritated as the enflamed and ginger tints marking the sky. From where I’m sitting, the towering volcano in the distance looks lonely yet proud. I marvel at the magnitude of nature rendering the likes of me insignificant. I’m just a small biological mass cowering at the foot of a fire goddess; nothing special. The prickly patches of grass and barbed brushes under my naked legs recommend moving. I inspect the scrapes and welts around my hands and knees with renewed vigor. By the time I distinguish the human shape from the other obscure and creeping shadows, it was too late. A sense of annoyed inconvenience forces my head to look up at the person blocking my view. What I thought I’d see was a family member. What I see is two deep, gilded eyes set in the moon-pale skin topped with dark hair rivaling black lava. I feel every last nerve recoil into tiny prickly hairs, standing straight up. The view of the man in front of me is a complete opposite rendition to fire goddess I just venerated. He is an enormous portrait hauntingly hanging in mid-air. My mouth dries rapidly but the trio who live in my mind become rather loud and verbal: “Run!” and “Hit it!” and “Stay calm dearie, for your safety.” As so many times before in my life, I ignore them altogether. I do not own the image nor the story. I found the story really interesting, so that is why I want to share it with everyone. So that they can enjoy reading something fascinating.

fatoum · Integral

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3 Chs

Safe Area

The grip against my wrist tightens and my body pulls into him a little closer, almost protective. I find it oddly unsettling to think he'd want to protect me, yet the sum of his attitude and mannerism suggests dangling me towards a playful puppy in a game of fetch would be a lot more appealing.

Safe Area.

Blood is rushing back into my arm as I am re-connected with the earth without warning.

I spill onto the ground with equal force to an unexpected mudslide. Soundless, I rub my wrist and arm to stimulate circulation back into it, tears stinging behind my eyes at the unbearable ache. It feels as if the bones were crushed and the sweltering bruises forming like bangles remind me of the times I accidentally singe my arm on the hot oven racks while cooking.

Stubbornly, refusing to speak, I hold back the tears threatening to brim. I maneuver awkwardly into a position which would aid me in standing up without having to use my hands. "Oh…" his head whips around into my direction. He pushes me back onto the soft, dry covers. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice soothing again, rich and creamy. "I've hurt you. I'm sorry. Let me have a look. No, no please, don't pull away."

If you had told me a moment ago this brute of a man would be so gentle, so precise and comforting in the way he touches me, I'd have told you about the possibility of having lost a few brain cells to a beer bottle. His trembling cold hands smoothly cover my left wrist. He looks so sad and remorseful so I offer a weak smile. "I've had worse, it doesn't hurt so much." Part of this is unquestionably true.

I am the clumsiest of all our family. Just waking up is a stumble in itself. I terrify the other kids on sports days, though they are all excessively polite about it. The connection between my brain and body is malfunctioning or delayed. My mother often comments on how the exact opposite is true about my brain to mouth functionality. I look at the hand-print-bangle and try not to think about how much it hurts. The big, handsome human shape shakes his head in my direction and sighs.

His movements mesmerize me. "You're a terrible liar." Taking my hand for inspection, he concludes: "There's no infection. I'll clean and cover those too." He points to my knees "It should heal without scars." It is my turn to shake my head at him. "You are an atrocious liar too. The slash on my knee is going to leave a whopper, along with the various others I already have on display in the general area." I am surprised to be able to finish my sentence and not have him interrupt me or cut me short.

Getting up, he throws a warning look at me. "Please don't stand on my bed again. Your feet are rather dirty" "Your-" He rolls his eyes and moves away from me. "Yes, my bed. I harbor no intention to be inappropriate with you at all." "Yes, not even throw me for the wolves," I grumble under my breath.

This seems to tickle him and I see his shoulders shaking while pouring warm water into a bowl before returning. "Nope, nor dangle you for a game of fetch, no. Hold still please." His hands move fast, making me contemplate whether or not he is touching my skin at all.

His movements are slight and calculated and under my watchful eye, I don't miss the bandage virtually wrapping itself around each knee, appearing almost eager to be there. I look down at him, his hair so unruly and his skin so pale.

I reach out to touch his arm with my hand, to slow him down. I don't get near it. Without shifting, he moves his arm out of my way and eventually gets up. Silently I look on while he burns the bloodied swabs and pours the water down the drain followed by bleach and hot water. "I have to make my way home. It is… dinnertime with my family. Don't leave here, please.

You are safe but I cannot say the same if you should. There is food in the fridge, help yourself. I will escort you home afterward." My hand rubs over the cover and I nod. I stare at him as he makes his way towards the door thinking that there must be a fairytale somewhere to warn you about handsome giants with gentle touches. Before leaving, he turns with a dazzling smile. "This brute's name is Allan."

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