“Yza?” Fatyan’s tender call, spoken right over Yzabel’s nose.
“Yes?” her whispered answer.
Faty’s free hand moved, trailing languid fire along Yzabel’s chest, her collarbone. “Do you want to know?”
Her insides melted, and a strange feeling of wetness built between her thighs, making her squirm with the need for something. Fatyan held her at the cusp of expectation, and in her hands, Yzabel felt like a twisted rope, aching for Faty to untie her and set every knot loose.
“You’ll teach me?” The question came out breathless. She couldn’t tear her gaze from Faty’s cherry lips, or her fingers from twirling a lock of Faty’s silky hair around them.
A shift. A caress of temptation along Yzabel’s jaw. “I could. What else are friends for?”
Faty sank lower, pressing them together. Skin sizzled where their bodies met behind thin chemises, and she realized she’d arched her back to press them closer still.
“This feels different.” It was something else, but what was something else when the two parties were women? What was the tug between them, if not that?
Fatyan palmed one of Yzabel’s cheeks and gave the opposite one a kiss. “What does it feel like, then?”
Sweet pressure flickered in her chest, her lungs, devouring every other one of Yzabel’s thoughts until she lived solely to pursue its name. “I don’t know.”
The shadow of Fatyan’s lips dipped to find the shell of Yzabel’s ear, drawing a delicious whimper. “I do.”
A moment flooded in unspoken promises and secret knowledge, and like with water, Yzabel drowned in it, and she would die if she did not breathe in an answer. “How?”
“Because I spent more than a century trying to forget it.” The tip of Fatyan’s sharp nose bumped Yzabel’s broad one, and she left her mouth hovering over hers, every syllable a fleeting stroke of soft lips. “And now I remember.”
The green in Faty’s eyes gave way to dilating black before disappearing between lowering lids and long lashes. Her weight shifted as she planted a kiss on Yzabel’s temple. Another on her nose. Her cheekbone. Each fed the agonizing flame sputtering in her gut, bringing it higher, higher—
A tentative brush of lips on lips that lasted forever and then not at all, and yet it stole everything away. Her breath, her words, her sense. Confusion locked her in place, and Fatyan pulled away, blushing, hand to her lips, like she couldn’t believe what she’d done.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Yzabel’s heart pounded once, twice, heavy with need, and her lips hungered for another taste, another kiss. Every moment she hung in that breathy stillness stretched into a small eternity, and when Yzabel tilted her chin up and captured Faty’s mouth in hers, the quietude unraveled along with everything else.
A gasp opened Yzabel’s mouth, letting in a sleek, slow caress of a tongue and the taste of cinnamon. Her body came alight, and it was not unlike being able to eat after starving for so long. This was another part of her she’d neglected, a type of affection she’d never feasted upon, and now that she had, she couldn’t keep herself from seeking another taste, from devouring every morsel.
Yzabel cradled the back of Faty’s head, fingers lost in luscious hair while the rest of her got lost in everything else.
A hand slipped under the hem of her nightshirt, hiking up the fabric as it skimmed the curve of her waist to come to a splay on her ribs, thumb resting right under the small curve of her breast.
Her legs lost their strength and fell open, letting one of Fatyan’s slip between them. The tightness at her center pulsed, and every inch of her flesh throbbed for more. A hot, shallow breath left her lips when Faty took hers away.
All so new. So strange. So wonderful.
Fatyan’s mouth came back to hers, rough and soft, demanding and giving. Yzabel moaned, needing more of that taste, more of that feeling as she swallowed the chuckle spilling from Faty’s lips.
“Oh, Yza…” The stars of kisses on her jaw, behind her ear, goose bumps in their wake. “I waited so long for you.”
Yzabel still didn’t know what she meant by that, what exactly it was that she had that Faty hadn’t seen in anyone else—but she was so close to finding out, so close to unwinding the growing frustration that followed Fatyan’s touch like a moth did to a flame.
Faty’s hand traveled lower, while she ate the gasp right out of her lips before whispering, “Yza, I love you.”
Love.
So that’s what it was.
Another sharp flare of pleasure froze Yzabel in a whimper, and the four letters of that word swam behind her closed eyes. Faty swirled her tongue around the peak of a nipple, her finger slid to tease the growing tightness between Yzabel’s thighs, lifting the buildup to new heights.
A violent jolt of rapture opened her eyes, roused her from the madness that was this waking dream of carnal pleasures. The sight of Faty’s lips on her gave her a shiver of pleasure and a shudder of horror.
Women shouldn’t want other women to touch them like this, shouldn’t come apart under another woman’s touch, shouldn’t be curious as to what awaited her at the end of whatever it was that Faty was doing to her.
Panic shallow in her breaths, she sat up, scrambling out from under Faty’s warm weight and hating the empty ache that blossomed in her lower parts, the ache that told her to return, to beg for more of that ecstasy, to let herself return to the labyrinth of Fatyan’s caresses and get lost in it again.
She recalled the talk her mother had given her before the wedding. How, even if it hurt, it was a woman’s duty to lie there and wait for the king to fill her with his seed. An empty receptacle whose only purpose was to be filled with babies.
She’d heard it could be different, too. Overheard the maids and her ladies-in-waiting confess wicked things in hushed tones, caught Aldonza talking about her nights with the Portuguese king. Catching those glimpses of conversation always made Yzabel wonder if there was something wrong with her. Why was she so uninterested in sharing a bed with Denis, or any other man? Why did the thought of him hovering over her fill her with such fear instead of wanting, or at least, curiosity? Why had she felt nothing but lukewarm when she’d pressed her lips to his, whereas with Faty it’d been like coming up for air after being underwater too long?
They’d said she’d lust when she grew up, or when she met her future husband, but such emotions had never visited upon her, not even upon meeting the man she’d share her life with. And yet…the women had been right. Yzabel realized now that she did lust. Only it wasn’t for the person she was supposed to.
She thought God had sent Faty to help her, and He had—but the Devil always lurked in every one of God’s boons, and she’d succumbed to the temptation as easily as men did. The rush of heat that invariably blossomed when Fatyan touched her, when she smiled, when she hugged her, when she looked at her—when she was simply there, in Yzabel’s vicinity. The flips of her stomach, the lightness of her breath, the feeling that her chest was about to burst. She’d thought it friendship, and although friendship was part of it, she realized now there was something else in the mix as well.
Something wrong. Something that once known, she would never be able to forget.
“This can’t be,” she breathed.
“Yza?” a confused call, spoken with concern. Movement shifted the mattress as Faty crawled toward her.
Before she could touch her again, Yzabel rushed to leave the bed, to put as much distance between them as she was able. “This can’t be,” she exclaimed again, this time through tears and terrible shame. Love like this couldn’t happen between two women, which meant whatever was happening between her and Fatyan was wrong. Unnatural. A sin.
Fatyan recoiled, her look of hurt and fear scratching at Yzabel’s heart. “What’s wrong about love?” Faty said.
“You don’t love me! You
can’t. It’s against natural law—”
“Then why did you kiss me back?” Faty came to stand before her, and Yzabel turned her eyes away, shut them tightly to keep herself from glimpsing the flesh that had been under her hands moments ago, trying to forget how soft it’d been, how warm, how perfectly it had fit against hers. Her lips could still taste the cinnamon, and the scent of almonds lingered on her nostrils still. “Why didn’t you ask me to stop then?”
“I don’t know. I…” Yzabel shook her head, curled into herself and against the wall at her back. Her head drowned in opposing thoughts, flashing her images of Denis, of Fatyan, of herself, all the ugliness she’d bottled over the last week spilling its poison into her tongue.
Fatyan seized her uncertainty to reach for her again, to say, “No, listen—”
She dodged the hand coming toward her shoulder, afraid that contact would bring back the lustful chaos from the bed. “Don’t touch me!”
Faty stepped back with a grimace. “Yza, please—”
There was no stopping the hideous accusations from falling out. “You’re trying to take me away from the Lord’s grace, aren’t you? Trying to stain my soul with unforgivable sins, using His blessing to turn me to the Devil’s ways.”
She waited for Fatyan to contest her, to say she’d read things wrong somehow. But when she dared to steal a glance, there was only sorrow and hurt. The urge to apologize, to take away those lines of pain from Faty’s face, jumped to the tip of her tongue, and the need to return to Faty’s embrace began to build up again.
“I should’ve known you’d be just like Baba,” Fatyan said. “Just like any ignorant fanatic who picks and chooses the parts of the Bible that fit their biases and excuse their crimes.” An angry flare of her nostrils. “Do you want to throw me out a window, too?”
That’s why she’d never talked about the real reason she’d been cursed—her father had caught her with another girl. And even though Yzabel wanted to deny it, to say she’d never hurt Faty, to go back into her arms and kiss the sadness away, she couldn’t free herself from the spell that kept her immobile.
Her silence was the worst of choices, implying an agreement she didn’t mean.
Fatyan snorted. “I was a fool to hope I could be free with you.”
Words that struck like thunder, final and deadly. Words she could try to undo, and yet no sound formed in Yzabel’s throat, no correction was given voice. In her tearful, shameful silence, a gust of wind kicked around the space between them, and when she lifted her watery sight, it was to find Fatyan at the center of the turmoil, the glow of her skin washing them in a flash of light. As if made of thousands of pebbles, parts of her began to flake off in a landslide, a solid mountain crumbling under the force of broken promises.
Under Yzabel’s feet, the floor rumbled and tilted. The bottom drawer of the commode rattled ominously before falling open with a pop, and there, nestled amid the nightgowns, the stone radiating the burning energy of magic, demanded Faty’s return.
Her vow to give Faty the liberty to be herself had freed the Moura of the stone, and now, her ugly accusations were putting the Moura back. Her voice came unshackled then, as did her limbs. Mouth, desperately crying, “Don’t go!” Hands reaching for a face, seeking, finding—
Her fingers slipped right through, eons too late. The arms that had wrapped around Yzabel, the eyes that had seen her, the lips that had kissed her, dissolved to specks of light and dust. All was still in loud silence as the cloud that was Faty lingered around her until the breeze stirred again.
In a current of sparkling powder, the mist disappeared into the stone, forever to stay out of Yzabel’s reach.
Part II
Miracles
Chapter Twenty
Denial
Yzabel did not understand her wretched heart that bled for Faty, or her traitorous body, where the ghost of Faty’s touch remained, haunting her with those terrible sensations of pleasure even after the Moura had gone. As though the ground vanished from under her, Yzabel sunk to the floor with a hand to her rushing heart and tried to make sense of everything that had happened.
The kisses. The touches. The words.
Faty, conceding defeat. Faty, returning to the stone, where Yzabel could never find her. She’d had her one chance and she’d destroyed it in a fit of offensive rage.
Yzabel ran her hands across her face, tangled her fingers in her hair and tugged, as if pulling on her curls would rip away those unholy memories and sensations from her mind. They remained, their sinful roots strong, and she couldn’t—
A sobbing scream erupted from her lips. She was made of anguish, filled with sin, her body unwashed with impurity. Yzabel bit into the soft flesh of her hand, hoping the pain would rip Fatyan from her mind, but she was there even as she tasted blood.
The sting of her teeth retreated, and there it was again, the sweet agony that shouldn’t exist, the temptation to surrender. Emotions Yzabel should revile but couldn’t bring herself to.
She wrenched herself away as her mind raced, still trying to process, to understand. Why had she liked what Faty had done to her, why had she indulged when she should’ve instantly put a stop to it? Why was heat returning to her lower parts, along with that odd wetness that had made it so easy for Faty to—
Yzabel didn’t know what was worse—that she loved someone who wasn’t her betrothed, or that the person she loved was a woman.
“It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.” Wailing her litany of regret, Yzabel’s feet scrambled across the floor until she reached the commode, searching for the whip.
She’d stopped mortifying her flesh at Fatyan’s request, stopped atoning for the sins she couldn’t confess. Weakness exploited by this unholy lust, by these untoward cravings. She wanted to blame them all on the magic, that this had happened because she’d invited the Devil’s forces into her rooms, let them cradle her to sleep in bed.
But that couldn’t be; her magic was God-given, and she finally could use it to the people’s benefit. It was everything that had come along with it that had been the problem.
Fatyan, staying with her, lying for her—Yzabel could’ve put a stop to that. She could’ve put some distance between them, kept things cordial, ripped the roots of this terrible attraction before they even bloomed. Kept herself from enjoying their time together instead of seeing it for the trap that it was.
It’d be so easy to cast blame on Fatyan, but that would be to deny her own faults and compliance. It’d be to deny that she had hungered for Fatyan’s kiss, for her touch, for her love, that she’d made Yzabel’s insides spark with careless lust. But Faty had been alone and trapped for so long. Her declaration must’ve been nothing but despair, nothing but the need to keep the one attachment she had to the current world. Fatyan did not love Yzabel, not truly; her affection was born of desperation and solitude and kindness she hadn’t expected.
Her fingers ran across the hard, cold handle, stretched the supple leather tails.
The harsh truth was that there was no one else to blame for Yzabel’s sins.
She held the whip tighter and immediately brought it down over her shoulder, breaking flesh. A line of blood trickled down her back, pain flared and faded.
Not enough.
“Lord, please forgive me,” she said. “Please cleanse me. Please,” she told herself with another blow, wincing when it connected, then treasuring the blossoming pain, for when there was pain, there was no Fatyan.
But she came back, between blows, between tears, between sobs, between gasps of air and bursts of agony. Vaguely, Yzabel was aware of the noise stopping, the sound of the lash echoing alone in the night. Her blows grew weaker, the pain so intense it blackened the edges of her blurry sight.
The whip fell from her tired hands; every little movement became excruciating, pulling at her raw back. Blood painted the carpet red,
and Yzabel let it spread along with the hurt, let it smother her in its cruel embrace. She welcomed the agony, welcomed the cold hard floor beneath the rug as she lay down on it, barely hearing the door open, or Denis’s scream—she only noticed he was there when his boot was in front of her eyes.
Her betrothed.
She’d betrayed him, betrayed her promises to him. He’d been patient and kind, and she’d rewarded him with nothing but treachery and deceit.
“Yzabel…Yzabel, what have you done?” Gentle arms gathered her up, carried her to the bed.
“How else will the Lord forgive me for my transgressions?” She looked at him through wet lashes and aching eyes. “I lied to you. I betrayed you.”
Surely, he could see her shame, read her sins on the lines of her back, hear the regret in her voice—
He turned around, and she thought he’d leave as his footsteps faded. But after some rummaging, Denis returned with the emergency box and sat next to her. She hissed as he began to peel the shreds of nightgown from her wounds, his fingers so tender, his face so worried.
“I’m sorry.”
His apology crushed whatever was left of her heart, brought new tears to simmer behind her eyes.
“All you wanted was to help. I should’ve listened to you instead of demanding you forsake something that matters.” The cold sting of salve mingled with the heat of his hands as he spread it across her wounds. “I’ve released Brites from the dungeons; she doesn’t deserve to lose her life when she’s not to blame for Vasco’s murder. She’ll be following the Court’s caravan back to her home in Estremoz—but you must understand, I cannot invite her to be in your employ again.”
He was trying to make things better; it made her feel worse. Denis did care about her, and her opinions, her happiness. So long as Brites came out unharmed, she couldn’t complain—at least she’d still be able to visit her former maid.
Yzabel curled into herself further. God had given her everything, and instead of accepting His gifts, she’d acted the petulant child, made herself believe her life fraught with curses and a betrothed who didn’t want her. All those nights she’d been relieved to see him spend with other girls, she should’ve been trying to make things better with him.
A Curse of Roses Page 18