Son of the Sun: An Inca Love Story

Beautiful

A brush of something odd runs softly across my lips in a gentle, curious motion, drawing me out of my slumber. It sweeps along the flesh of my bottom lip in swirls and pinches, repeating the pattern on both halves. Brush, pinch, caress. Brush, pinch, caress.

What—

Furrowing my eyebrows, I finally blink my eyes open, trying to adjust to the brightness of the sun across my vision. The touch on my mouth stills. After a few more blinks and a squint, I look over into the curious gaze of two burning embers.

My heart leaps into my throat with alarm at the strange man and I freeze for two different reasons.

The first relates to the beautiful stranger crouching above me with his head tilted curiously to the side, his fingers still in contact with my round lips. The sharp, handsome contours of his face make him easily the most enthralling man I've seen in my twenty years of life, and I wonder if I gave into the cool of the night and joined the land after this one. His bronze skin shimmers like rich silk beneath his white dressing shirt and the pleated wear around his waist is tied with strings of gold and a few colors along the hem in traditional shapes. From the gold woven sandals on his feet to the well-made clothing, I know he must be royalty of some kind. His angular, clean-shaven jaw moves, his lean body moving closer and rippling with muscle beneath his outerwear.

And his eyes . . . those alluring ambers are distinct, stamped forever in my memory with their raw curiosity. They stop the world in their hypnotic trance, and I'm stuck in their endless loops until I can't remember ever being afraid of this man.

But that's my second reason. Fear.

I avoid his curious eye to glance down at the long, leather-bound blade lying beside us and jump backwards. He moves back onto his knees just as quick and draws a hand up to his chest, startled. Though he's more than pleasant to look at and has a heated gaze that could light anyone on fire, I know he has the potential to harm me in my defenseless state. He can easily make my death drawn out with just a knife, and those toned legs can catch up to me if I try to make a run for it. Our unmoving state doesn't last very long, as he's moving towards me once again.

The stranger reaches out a slow hand towards my face once more and I bite my tongue harshly to keep from flinching back and giving him a reason to be angry, though my heart was pounding. But instead of striking me, he does something else entirely, like he doesn't wish for anything malicious. He caresses the flesh of my cheek with a gentle palm, his long fingers stretching behind my ear to tangle with the curls in unveiled fascination. My cheeks are suddenly hot as he runs the padding of his thumb across my blushing cheekbone and his features soften. I don't move—still too frightened to think coherently.

And before I know it, the rain clouds are moving from his expression and he's gracing me with the dazzling sun of his wide smile. A flurry of trapped birds knocks the wind out of my throat at the tenderness in his shy expression and I can't help but wonder why he's looking at me the way that he is.

He rubs my cheek in a foreign, circular motion and then removes his hand from my cheek entirely, bringing the tip of his thumb up to his curious eye. He studies the clean padding of his thumb closely, rubbing it against his forefinger to answer a hidden question of how long I'd been there. I tilt my head slightly in confusion at the strange action. Is there something on my face? Why is he staring at my cheek—

Oh.

Sheepishly, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep.

"It's dirt," I say to him, slightly amused.

He seems harmless enough. If he wanted to kill me, I assume he would have done so already.

It's obvious he's never come across someone sleeping in the middle of nowhere at the edge of the forest. I'm sure he hasn't. If Francisco was right, the land we're on is still a virgin; untouched by other settlers with slaves who want to taint this land with their discovery.

The unknown man in front of me looks back at me with a vibrant puzzlement, not at all understanding what I just said. He frowns a little and speaks to me in his native language that I have no history of knowing in a deep, powerful voice. Though the language is different, the way he phrases his words is somehow pleasant to my ears. I almost loathe myself for shaking my head in response, exaggerating that I don't know what he's saying until he stops speaking abruptly. He just watches me now, with that frown on his face.

I touch the minerals of the dirt and rub it between two of my fingers and hold up my forefinger as a one, as I've only been sleeping a nightfall. I don't know what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it, but I can't help but be curious enough to want to communicate with another person whose first instinct isn't to hurt me.

The stranger's eyes light up with understanding this time and he quickly nods his head. His curious gaze takes in my withered brown gown beneath the quilt crumpled at my waist, a confused frown adorning his lips. For the shortest of moments, I almost forget the discomfort of my rumbling stomach and the quenching desperation of my thirst.

Almost.

"Kanan," he whispers.

I frown. Kanan?

He moves my hand to level it with his chest and presses it against the patch of hairless skin under a long shirt, my fingers fanning out. I widen my eyes, looking up at him while he repeats the quizzical word once more. As he does so, he presses my hand harder into him with the clear enunciation.

No, not a word.

A name.

His name.

"Kanan," I repeat softly. He nods, pleased with the progress as he releases his gentle hold.

I move my hand back and point at myself. My middle name, Veliane, is my true name, but having kept it hidden for so long, I think nothing of it when I give him the name the Spaniards gave me out of pure instinct. "Isabella."

His eyes sparkle, the embers reigniting in his light eyes. He repeats my name slowly, the sound hauntingly nice. I nod timidly.

Kanan stands up from the ground then and I notice how tall he really is. Shoulders broad and torso long, he's definitely taller than most of the men I've met, and when he holds out a long arm for me to take his hand, I stare at it briefly, unsure.

There's nothing out here for me now and no protection, food, or water that I can count on. I won't survive long without shelter. It's either death by starvation, thirst, or some animal out here, and none of those sound great. So, I do what I have to do, and place my hand in his, allowing his strength to pull me up with ease. He gives my hand a gentle tug and leads me onto a new journey. A new journey where I can start a life that I deserve, a life that I can choose after suffering from one where I couldn't.

I don't even give Francisco's battered quilt a passing glance as it drifts away into the wind.