The Secrets of Roan Island

10. Noah

10

Noah

I always hear the crying in the weeks leading up to a Winter or Summer Solstice. The sound is the whining whisper of a broken heart. A high-pitched tone like the wind sneaking through cracks in the windows and bursting down the hallways with violent gusts, like a wailing lament. Always at night. Always Zarah’s sobs. For years I searched to find where the sound was coming from. Now, I know better. What my father hides, I have no hope of finding. It’s a taunting curse to hear her grief but never be able to reach her.

Tonight, the crying starts around midnight. I would already be asleep if my incessant thoughts of Miss Rose weren’t keeping me awake. It’s been a few nights since I almost lost control in the greenhouse, but still, the memory of her lip pinched between my fingers plagues me.

As the first wails pluck the silence, my muscles tense, aching to run to my sister and offer her the comfort I used to give when she had a bad dream. The urge is instinctual, and before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing, I’m in the hall at Zarah’s door—now Ruby’s door. I stop myself just before bursting inside.

As I stand outside her room, the crying piercing my ears, I wonder if it could actually be Ruby crying. Knocking at this time of night wouldn’t be appropriate, but I can’t let the matter rest. She was so distraught the other night in the dark, fighting some memory I couldn’t see, that I have an inexplicable urge to ensure she’s alright. So I pull down on the sconce a few steps further down the hall. It opens a narrow passage that runs along the wall of Zarah’s old room, where Ruby now sleeps. Or cries.

It’s been years since I’ve been in this passageway, but I’m immediately brought back to memories I’d rather forget. Our father chose this room for Zarah so he could “keep an eye on his ‘baby girl’.” She never knew the corridor existed. Neither did I, until I caught Hammish stealing into it the night he found her preparing to run away with a young man from the new moon party. The night my father lost control and our world slid deeper into his madness. Enraged, he screamed that she must remain pure and protected. It’s how he justified everything he did after that.

I hate that this secret passageway exists, that it led to that night. But I use it now almost without thought.

My eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, and I hold out an arm to brush away the expected cobwebs. Only there aren’t any. The lacy, sticky webbing hangs thick and already broken against the wood. As if someone was recently here. The thought chafes, giving me a sickening feeling in my gut. I want to kill whoever dared play voyeur to Miss Rose’s privacy. I know who it would be even as I’m conscious that I’m no better than him at the moment. I justify I’m just checking to ensure she’s alright. I’ll leave as soon as I know she’s sleeping soundly.

The cramped space forces me to turn sideways in order to move through, creeping my way toward the two-way mirror. Once there, I can see her room is dark, though one sputtering candle on the nightstand still flickers, fighting back the gloom. A clear concession to her fear. There’s an urge in me to peel back her walls, expose her trauma to the light, dissect it, cut open her scars and see what’s underneath. Her darkness calls to me. Tempts me. She thinks she hides it well, but I see.

I’ll learn her ex-husband’s name. It won’t be difficult.

She is safely in bed, asleep, not crying, blissfully unaware of my sister’s weeping. I should leave now that I know she’s fine, but my feet move closer to the glass. A compulsive propulsion, like blood flowing toward a heart.

Sometime during the night, she kicked off the heavy covers. Her nightgown has climbed her body, uncovering her legs and revealing bare skin kissed by the light of the lone candle. I long to drag my palm from her ankle up to her thigh and bite the soft flesh at the top of her leg. What would she do if she woke to my touch?

Each time we’ve been close, her reaction to me has been thrilling. Her chest heaving, breath short, eyes dilated. She responds so beautifully to me, like ice melting over a fire. In the greenhouse, she tempted me beyond the point of control. I nearly forgot myself. The scent of her—the musk of a woman mixed with an earthy incense held in the grip of something lightly floral—nearly drove me mad. Pure torture. A craving unlike any I’ve ever experienced.

Miss Rose might be the most dangerous person in this house. At least, to me.

Which is why I need to avoid her. So I’ve made rules for myself. Rules to keep my control. I never offer her my arm unless she’s wearing gloves. I keep a generous distance between us when I’m forced to be in her vicinity. And as often as I can, I leave her with my brothers. Still, my thoughts return to her, as constant as the blood-red waves that lap against the island’s shore.

Now, watching her sleep, all my carefully managed rules wash away like sand so easily discarded.

She moans softly, a sound I can only pick up because of my exceptional hearing, and rolls from her side to her back. Her legs are casually spread, forming a tempting triangle beckoning me to discover what’s hidden under the white gown. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t invade her privacy like this, but I’m a prurient, depraved bastard, and I can’t look away.

She rolls again, this time to her belly with her plump ass curving like a ripe fruit, ready to be eaten. Oh, to sink my teeth into her. I would take hold of her hips and pluck them up so I could devour her from behind, the sweet juice of her running down my chin.

I groan, my cock thickening in my hastily donned trousers.

Her movements become more erratic. Tossing to one side, then the other. Nightgown edging higher and higher on her hip. Is it pleasure or pain that chases her through her dreams?

She moans, and I’m undone. My forehead falls against the glass with a gentle thud.

She shoots up in bed, gasps, and pulls the covers to her chest as her eyes dart around the room. When they finally stop at the mirror, I take a step back. She can’t see me, only her own reflection, but I feel her gaze like she’s weighing my character and finding me lacking.

She’d be right. I’m not the saint or the hero, I’m the deviant, the devil. And I want her.