Namesake

And I didn’t want to admit that West looked different to me now. That he looked more like my father.

He touched my face, fingertips sliding into my hair.

I didn’t know what he’d done in the Narrows, trying to find me. But the weight of it was heavy on him. He was darkened with it. In that moment, I only wanted to feel his rough hands on my skin and swallow the air around him until I could taste him on my tongue. To feel as if I were hidden in his shadow.

His face lowered until his mouth hovered over mine, and he kissed me so gently that the burn of tears instantly erupted behind my eyes. My hands moved down the shape of his back and he leaned into me, inhaling deeply, as if he was pulling the warmth of me inside of him. I put what Clove told me out of my mind, closing my eyes and imagining that we were in the lantern light of West’s quarters on the Marigold.

His teeth slipped over my bottom lip and the sting resurfaced from where the skin was still healing. But I didn’t care. I kissed him again and his hands reached for the skirts, pulling them up until I could feel his fingers on my legs. His touch dragged up, and when his hand wrapped around the stitches in my thigh, I winced, hissing.

West pulled away from me suddenly, his eyes running over my face.

I watched him carefully. “What were you to my mother?”

A twinkle lit in his eyes as he surveyed me. “Ah. That depends on who you ask.” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “A helmsman. A savior.” He paused. “A villain. Which version of the story do you want to hear?”