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15
The room was far too cold to ever be able to sleep. Though she hated her room at her Aunt's, with its scratchy covers and burnt carpets, she could always count on it being warm. But even under the piles of lavish duvets and throws, it still still felt frosty, so cold that her nose felt an icy blue.
But Ana felt like the comfort of the room had nothing to do with it, or else she would be unbearably hot. She believed it had more to do with the fact that she didn't want to be here. She was chilled by the intense anger that had been created from the moment she had rushed off. Yet, at the same time, she could feel the searing want for warmth- the only way she would sleep.
And yet it wasn't even warmth that she craved. As she lay in bed, she had enough time to think. To feel the slipping of her thoughts, the image of certain feelings infiltrating her emotions no matter how much she protested. The feeling had been there longer than she had thought, one day appearing simply.
As if timed, a knock came from the door. Unsure and feeble enough that it was almost lost to the defeating silence that Ana had tossed and turned in. Relieved to have a break from her thoughts, Ana pulled herself from the bed, the touch of the glossy tiles against her toes sending goosebumps travelling down her covered arms, tickling against the nightgown.
When opening the door, she hadn't know who she expected to see. The ghost of Grace Shelby may have even been in the running, with the thickness of the air. But as she opened, she should have guessed who it was. John Shelby. Who else would it have really been?
"John," she said quietly. There was not enough energy to have the bite beneath her words and the room was cold enough without her adding to it.
He was waiting for her to open the door wider, to let him in to speak, but she held it next to her face, only the right side of the crimson nightgown on show. John cleared his throat and looked up from where he had been staring a hole into the floor. His eyes were fluttering, forcing himself to look straight to her wide eyes and nowhere else.
"Ana. I- Can I talk to you?" He asked and she nodded.
He could have talked in the corridor as she leaned against the doorframe. It was comfortable enough. But something made her pull the door open wider, only just letting him slip in behind her as she shut it after him. The indescribable feelings, feelings that she hadn't felt before, had taken full control, seized her by the shoulders and urged her to listen as if she hadn't been so cold before.
"What did you want to talk to me about?" She asked him, her back turned away as she sat herself on the bed, opposite to where he stood awkwardly with his hands in his pockets.
"I can't pretend like it doesn't bother me." He paused, and Ana was about to say how she didn't know what he was talking about, until he spoke again. "One minute we were fine and laughing and you were smiling. Then the next you're glaring and acting cold, as if I was a stranger."
"Maybe you are," she began. "A stranger, I mean. You don't really know me."
"Don't give me that. We both know that it's a lie," he said, stepping forward around the bed so that he could see her face. She looked away. "I deserve an honest answer."
Ana clenched her jaw, too afraid that it might wobble and trigger tears. She sighed.
"I can't be near you, John," she said, her voice small. "You wouldn't understand."
"You said the same thing to me, remember?" He said, moving swiftly to sit beside her, his hat held tightly in his hands. "And you remember what you said? You said: we're the same, that's why you understand me. And that's why I understand you."
She felt a hand on her cheek, pulling her face up so her eyes met his. "Let me in. Just like I let you in."
She swallowed, feeling her lips crack dry. And then she did. She let him in. She let the words out. It didn't matter that she would regret it. It didn't matter that her logic was bent. It didn't matter that her only excuse was fear. It didn't matter that soon she would freeze back harder, less crackable than the last time.
"I can't be near you John," she said, watching his mesmerising eyes as they trailed across her face, feeling them pinprick each feature, each flaw. "No matter what you say, I am Petrovna. And that is the reason. I can't trust you as much as I do. A Shelby shouldn't have the affect that you do on me."
He shook his head. "But my brother?"
"You think that is the same?" A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "My sister could never feel anything more selfishness. I used to be like that. That is what I should be. That's how you survive in a world like ours."
"I don't believe you," he said, and Ana's head snapped to stare at him.
"What is there to believe in?"
His hand was still on her cheek, drawing circles and swirls across her skin. It was such a simple movement, but Ana could think of nothing else but the feeling of his fingers on her skin, the feeling of the odd scrape that would catch as his nail dipped too far. It was addictive, but she was drawn out of it once again by his voice, low and pleasant.
"I don't believe that you want to be like that. Unfeeling. Unloved." When had he gotten so good with words and with feelings? She felt trapped by the truth, the desire of her wants. "I think you want this."
He was leaning in further, closing the distance between them little by little, as if testing how far he could go before she would snap. An hour ago, it would have been inevitable. She would have growled, pushed him away and shouted. But now, after all she had said and felt, Ana wanted to close the distance quicker.
"Do you want this, Ana?" He whispered, sending a chill up her spine.
"Just because I want something doesn't mean I should have it," she finally spoke. "But God, I want it."
The warmth that she lusted after filled her body, expanding out at rapid speed from where her lips touched his. He kissed her back with such passion, that Ana couldn't help but moan, the feeling of complete euphoria spreading through her, heating her like a fire. John's lips felt chapped, crackled and broken by the cold air and soothes by the heat of her breath and softness of her touch.
His hand had found hers, enveloping her fingers in his. They were rough, like paper, sharp and skilled in cutting yet smooth enough to caress, to be marked. Tiny scars covered his hands and Ana found herself trailing them, her slim fingers connecting them like the constellations she would admire when she was younger.
John smiled against her lips. She was so close. Closer than she had ever imagined he would get. And then he was falling backwards, the cushioned mattress meeting his back kindly as her weight fell upon his, wrapping him in warmth as a blissful feeling followed.
