Queen of Hearts (Wonderland 2)

Chapter Seven

Lyriope

“Ithought you were going to chop off my fingers,” I say as my body and mind seem to connect once again after moments of feeling as if I was floating away into a world of bliss.

“Why would you think that?” he asks with a smirk.

I want to trace my tongue along his upturned lips. I recognize this Nick. I remember this side of him. It’s familiar even as it’s foreign. His smile soothes me just as much as it scares me. The tug-of-war between emotions when it comes to this paradox of a man spins my mind and casts it into a sea of confusion and bedlam.

“Oh I don’t know. The memory of your threats is forever seared into my brain.”

He chuckles at my dark humor, then stands up from the floor.

Naked.

So very, very naked.

His body… Jesus Christ, his body. The way the moonlight shines in from the veranda and reflects off his tattoos makes him appear as if he’s a painted god. The man is chiseled stone. A perfect masterpiece. For the first time, I notice he has a tattoo of playing cards on his back thigh. A king of spades, a queen of hearts, and an ace of diamonds. They are surrounded in a tea party setting. Bright colors, chipped and intricate teacups, and little cookies on a table that say “eat me”. A Wonderland painting in full display, and I’m fascinated by the true art that has been expertly crafted onto his body.

“Do you have scars all over your body?” I ask him, remembering that he told me his tattoos cover his scars. And since he has tattoos all over his body, I wonder if that means scars are everywhere too.

“For the most part,” he says as he walks over to the veranda and looks out.

The way the moonlight highlights his outer edges almost give off a paranormal vibe. Like he’s a vampire king looking out over his empire.

“Is there any room left on your body for more tattoos?”

My eyes are fixated now on a tree that runs up his side. There are fireflies swirling around it, and it nearly appears to be lit up. His body is truly art and watching him before me is better than entering any gallery in the world. No artist could measure up to all the perfection inked onto his skin.

I wish I could paint him. I wonder what colors I would use? Would there be a thick and heavy black around him with pops of bold and bright colors? He’s both. Dark but also so very bright. The painting would be gothic, macabre, and even evil. And yet it would also be whimsy, joyous, and exciting. If I could truly capture this man in a painting or even in one of my sculptures, it would no doubt be a masterpiece.

“A little.” He glances over his shoulder at me for a brief moment and adds, “The part of me that isn’t scarred.”

His words are like a slice to my flesh. So full of pain even in the simplicity of the sentence.

I want to hold him right now. I want to lift to my knees, extend my arms and embrace this man before me. But it’s not him in the flesh who I want to hold. It’s the broken boy inside of him. I see this child. I can almost hear his tormented cries. For the briefest of moments I can see the terrifying monster before me transition to a lonely boy who has no choice but to become a beast or be devoured. Choices were made. Survival had to happen.

Nick was not born the villain. Life simply swallowed him up, and when he crawled out from the pit of the belly… a cane-toting, dark-souled madman emerged.

But that boy who desperately needs to be loved is still there. I know it. Whether Nick wanted to or not—he revealed that little boy for the briefest of moments.

“Nick…” I say, waiting for him to turn and face me again. “I’m sorry. I’m not just saying that because you’re angry. I’m not just saying it because you’re here and—I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I didn’t even leave a note, and… well… you deserved better.”

His eyes seem to soften, and I can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“I acted impulsively—”

“So did I—by coming here.” He pauses for the briefest of moments. “In truth… the best people do,” he adds. “Act impulsively. Our guts are the voice we should listen to. You and I are alike in that way.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel I’m not grateful—”

“I’ve never asked for your gratitude,” he cuts in.

“But I should give it. I’ve pulled you into my mess, and that’s why I left. I’m done making my problems others’.”

“You didn’t pull me in. I stepped into this situation. This is of my making.” He stretches his arms over his head, tilting his head to the side to work out the kinks, his lean body causing a yearning for more of his touch to stir inside of me. “Don’t try to write the narrative in this story incorrectly. I’m not the victim. You aren’t the victim. We are the victors. Apologies are not for a time like this.”

“So you aren’t mad?” A flicker of relief washes over me, and I start to feel as if Dylan and Sasha’s life may not be in danger any longer.