Architects of the Cataclysm

Regret

Maybe he's more of a carnivore. Not that I think giving him gamey meat is a good idea given he's neither used to it nor is his stomach going to be in an adventurous mood, considering the bruising.

Elaina contemplated the intensity with which Cat stared into his taco salad. She pulled out all the stops with this dinner. Fresh chopped lettuce, juicy diced tomatoes, slices of sweet onion, succulent homegrown beans, luxurious goat's milk sour cream snipped-from-the-stem cilantro, and a crispy, flaky taco shell bowl. She only spoils herself like this for her birthday, yet he hadn't eaten a single forkful. It's not like she hadn't asked him if he'd enjoy a taco salad. He accepted this meal for their dinner menu.

She sighed and poked at her own salad with somber stabs. She found it hard to hope for a sweet ending when he couldn't bring himself to endure the main course.

No, she thought, it's not about the meal. She savored a bite of her dinner, relishing in the fresh crispness of the vegetables and the sweet snap of the beans. No, she was certain her meal was delectable for anyone who found such a dinner appealing. I'm just looking for a scapegoat, she admitted to herself. Her shoulders sank as she allowed herself to see the truth. He's been like this ever since I showed him my sketchbook. Shit, I crossed the fucking line. I knew I shouldn't have sketched him.

She felt disgusted with herself. She hadn't even thought about what it might mean to him to see his nearly naked form etched upon her pages. To her, she simply saw beauty in nature sprawled out on her couch and she whipped out her sketchbook while her muse whispered in her ear. Had it been the other way around, she would have been appalled. It wouldn't have mattered if the artist had saved her or not.

"Listen," she said, placing down her fork as remorse darkened her face, "I'm so sorry I sketched you without your permission. That seriously violated your privacy. I keep making excuses for myself and those won't make what I did right. I'm really, truly sorry."

This is why I'm out here, she thought. Can't help but hurt people, no matter how hard I try to stop myself.

She rose from her chair with a sniff, doing her best to call back the tears threatening to shed. She then stepped over to her pot belly stove, threw open the door and grabbed her sketchbook from the shelf.

"What are you doing?" asked Cat, his voice strained.

"I know you didn't tell me to burn them, but I will anyway. I know that won't make what I did better, but I'm hoping this can show how much I regret doing them." She opened her book to the pages decorated with his immaculate form. She savored the images before tearing them from their spine.

"Wait, no, that's not..."

"You're sweet, but you should defend your honor as much as you defend whoever you're fighting for." She tossed the paper into the oven and grabbed her matches.

"No, I think they look..." The next thing she heard was a crash and a cry of pain.

"Cat?"

She turned to find him writhing on the floor, his teeth clenched and his bare legs trapped within the confines of the blanket that served as his robe for most of the day. His bare chest heaved and his large hand gripped his bruised shoulder, which had gained an additional gash from the corner of her coffee table. She left her matches on the shelf and ran over to his side.

"Cat, what were you thinking? What did you do?" Kneeling down beside him, her eyes glanced over his body, searching for any other fresh injuries.

"I'm stopping you from making a mistake," he replied with a strained smile. "I'm not offended that you drew me. Sure, permission is always important to get, but had you asked, I would have said yes. I mean, I probably would have bled out or died from infection out in those woods if it hadn't been for you. I don't mind you using me for your model in return. Plus, you're a damn fine artist. You make me look way better than I actually am."

"Bull shit, have you seen yourself?" Her hands hovered over him, both desperate to ease his pain and eager to touch the curves of his skin. "I...I should get a rag to clean up that wound."

"Compared to my thigh, this scratch is nothing."

"Yeah, well, it's still bleeding and I think I might have a Band-Aid or two left in my kit."

Elaina dampened a rag and then located one of the few bandages she still had. When she turned around, she found him reclined against the leg of her sofa, his face tight with pain from the effort. At some point, he had kicked off the blanket, which left his naked body bare to the autumn chill save for the small band of fabric guarding his hips. With the winter solstice approaching, the moon already sat high in the sky and the soft white glow caught the sheen of sweat upon his skin.

She took a deep breath and knelt down beside him.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice low as she placed a hesitant hand on his muscular shoulder. The moment her fingertips grazed his skin, a wave of sparking nerves zipped up her arm. Her hand retreated, her breath catching in her throat. She'd touched him many times before and, though it was a treat, she had never felt the same energy shocking her system.

After staring at her fingers for a moment, she glanced up to find him watching her. His blue eyes, dark in the low light, gazed at her from beneath his brow, reminding her that this time all of him was with her. She no longer touched a stranger devoid of consciousness and personality, instead she laid hands on a man that lived, breathed, and hungered.

"My right thigh muscle is useless," he answered, his words slow and precise, while his eyes held hers in a firm grip, "my ribs are so bruised it feels like a vice grip is on my chest, and the stabbing pain in my left shoulder has amplified after I took a nosedive into your coffee table."

She couldn't hold his gaze and returned to her work on cleaning and mending his wound. Her head needed to stay in the game if she was going to treat him properly. She wanted him, wanted to ease his pain by sending him into blissful nirvana where all he could feel was how her body felt against his. Now wasn't the time, though, not after what she did. She had to keep her emotions in check and her feet grounded in reality.

And she might have succeeded if he hadn't pressed a thick finger upon the bottom of her chin. He pulled her glassy eyes from his shoulder and focused her attention on the rugged face of her wounded guest.

"I'm also in the care of a foul-mouthed, whimsical spirit that has blessed these woods with her gifts. So yeah," he continued with a smirk that stopped her breath completely and sent a wave of heat from her chest, straight to the bottom of her stomach, "I'm doing okay."

She dropped the rag and let him bleed. Instead, her hands found the sides of his face, her fingers digging into his messy locks and her lips engaging his seductive smile.