𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐲 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐳:
Isadora Flores: a girl raised in captivity and brainwashed to believe she has a deadly disease that restricts her from the outside world permanently.
That was until one...
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My arms sting with exhaustions, my throat dry from gasping for air. And my lungs squeeze tighter with every movement my body makes as sweat beads my forehead.
I continuously punch the bag in front of me, with swift and concentrated jab and crosses, until my knuckles can't take anymore and I yield into my exhausted muscles.
I drop my arms to my side, and groan. "Rowan, I've been punching this damn bag non stop for ages," I slap my sore shoulders before applying pressure. "My arms hurt, and I can't feel the skin on my knuckles anymore."
He interrupts my complaining; "You need to build up your stamina. You complain so much." He tells me the exact thing he has told me for the past few days.
"I've been building up my stamina for three days." I say, bending over to place my hands on my knees, begging for air to fill my lungs and release the ache bidding them.
"It seems like its working." He mutters, emerald eyes gaze down on his lap at the simple sketchbook He concentrates on it deeply; My eyes lock in on his veiny hand holding the deep yellow pencil that taints the pale white paper, with every stroke it takes.
My mind wonders off to what is so interesting to draw? Is he even a good drawer? Does he like to draw? What is he drawing? Questions fill my head until I can do nothing but peer over his lap to get a quick look.
But I get distracted on the way there, And instead focus on the tiniest furrow of his brow, the slightest parting between his lips—His very pink, full lips. With the most defined cupids bow I have ever seen in a boy— in the midst of his concentration.
Why'd your mind focus on his very detailed lips, Isadora?
The voice in my head says. I don't like the voice in my head, I want it to go away sometimes. I also wonder if the voice in my head is a woman or a man—I'd hope for it to be a woman since I am a woman.
"I never said to stop." He mutters, eyes still remaining on his sketchbook.
I huff, before throwing my knuckles forward. "I can't, Rowan. Look at my knuckles!" I stride towards him, closing the gap between us. "They are blistered and bleeding."
His emerald gaze looks up through his lids. With a heavy sigh before he leans back into the tree, a frown dipping his pink lips and annoyance darkening his very pretty eyes. I wonder if people think my eyes are pretty.
"Let me see." he drops the pencil and holds an hand out for me to take.
He sits against the tree, head laid back and boots crossed over, right over left. His gaze is so visibly annoyed with me, and he does no effort to hide it in his expression whatsoever. A small frown takes my face, and hesitantly: I place my hand in his, showcasing my pink, blistered knuckles.
His eyes drop to my hand, and give it the entirety of his focus. His pink lips purse slightly. Shortly after he looks up to me through heavy lidded eyes, and the emerald color takes the entirety of my focus.
