Son of the Sun: An Inca Love Story

Understanding

Isabella Veliane Pizarro

Pressing my face against the flush of my legs, I release a long breath of relief at the shelter the cool walls of Kanan's hut provides for me. The sweltering heat already has my breath panting and beads of sweat collecting across my forehead like glittering stars. With the sun beating down on us, and the people watching me with mistrust, I'm uncertain which is more discomforting.

Kanan, thankfully, didn't leave me to their questioning stares for long. He led me up what was easily 50 steps to what looks to be his home, or a palace of some sort from the size of it. I'd have found it all beautiful had it not been for the salty taste of sweat gliding down my lip and stinging my eyes from the forehead drips.

Once we finally reached the top and walked inside, he took me down a few of the open corridors before stopping at a room filled with colorful pieces of art, a large pile of woven blankets making a rectangular shaped bed, and gold pieces strewn throughout the room. Thankfully, there was one large window and a small table below it with piles of linen on top.

Kanan currently stands across the room from me, almost worriedly. Not a single ounce of sweat collects on his perfect body as he removed his shirt but left the bottom half on. From the way his gaze scrutinizes my face, I can tell that he doesn't want to be near me out of fear of making my body even hotter. His amber eyes fill to the brim with longing, his jaw shutting tightly in ambivalence. I don't like the uncertainty on his face, and I cannot help but frown, opening a hand towards him and beckoning him to come closer. He hesitates at first, but then shakes his head and gestures in my direction. He points to his forehead, showing me he doesn't want me to sweat more than I already am.

I round my eyes pleadingly and motion for him to come closer. Just having him stand on the other side of the room has me nervous from previous worries. What if someone comes in and sees me before they see him and lunges for my throat? Or what if someone shoots an arrow through the window directly across from me and hits me? We are pretty high up, so that one is least likely, but the scenarios in my mind are endless.

An idea lights his handsome features, and he raises a thoughtful finger in my direction. He walks towards the doorway of the large room and slides out briefly, returning so quickly that I don't even have time to panic. In his large hand is a damp rag in a small bowl and he finally makes his way over to me, sitting right on the edge of his bed beside me while placing the bowl on a table.

Hesitantly, he reaches for my face with his free hand, his cool fingers cradling the warmth of my skin under my jaw as he slowly tilts my head up towards him. His eyes are tender when he raises his other hand towards my face, pressing the cool rag to my forehead.

I breathe out a sigh of relief at the cold contact as he strokes my face with the cool cloth. It isn't long until my curls refuse to cling to my face, and he brushes the few still lingering with the tips of his careful fingers. Unable to hold it back, I give him a closed-lip smile, thankful for his sweet thinking.

"Urpichay sonqoy," I say, remembering him teaching me thank you in his language.

A lively grin crosses his lips, and he nods his head proudly. He continues to soak up any sweat on my face while still holding me to him. My eyes roam over every inch of his erotic features, basking in his burning gaze. The firm muscles in his jaw tighten under my awed eyes and the hand holding my face softens. It should be unlawful the way his eyes lure you into their raging curiosity and the sweet way he smiles proves him to be even more dangerous.

"I wish you could understand me," I whisper under my breath.

Kanan's eyebrows furrow together. His lips move to form an uncomfortable word. Struggling to get it out, the word is choppy, but clear enough for me to know what he's trying to say. "Un . . . der . . . stand?"

My eyes widen at the broken pronunciation and, much too excited, I help him repeat the word. I gesture between us and motion to our mouths and ears as a way of proving what I meant with a deliberate nod. An amused smile crosses his features, and he nods back, repeating the word much more clearly this time.

For the rest of the hour and the next, we go back and forth like this. We gesture to unique items around the room, outside, and even charade ourselves with hand or arm motions if needed. We repeat the phrase in both of our languages. Nod for understanding, and laugh humorously if the pronunciation sounds too awful to pass. It isn't until we get to the names of the body parts that I suddenly grow timid.

I reach out to trail my hand softly over his arm, his gaze following the movement. Without hesitation, he slowly glides his large fingers down my right arm, stopping at my wrist only to make the same circuit once more, explaining what arm means in his language. I repeat the word and gain a nod of approval in return.

The breath in my throat catches even more when he grasps a hold of my hand, his fingers weaving through mine, intriguingly. He can say anything at all and I'd swoon, just as I did when I trusted that the words tumbling out of his mouth meant hands and fingers. He could have said mesmerized, charmed, enraptured for all that I care . . . and I would have agreed with it all.

He looks as wild as a blooming rose, enchanting all of those in sight of him. Rain and sunshine combined would only enhance his beauty and, as I repeat the simple word he tells me, a red petal flushes beneath the russet color of his skin, brightening the sweet summer air between us.

I know then, in this moment, that this man will soon mean everything to me, and so long as I'm around, I'll make sure this charming rose will never wilt.