She Belongs To No One

The Photo

Seraphina's POV

I open one of the doors, which leads to a bathroom with a small shower, a sink, and a toilet, a rug like the one in front of the fireplace but smaller on the tiled floor. There is no mirror, no bathroom cabinet. Just a glass with a toothbrush on the sink. I cannot imagine how he bathes in there, which leads me to question how often he bothers.

I let out a sigh, eyes darting to the eggshell blue ceiling. Why do I end up in the company or in the homes of men who do not take grooming seriously?

Well, come to think of it, it looks like Bjorn has not shaved his face in a while. I suppose I should be glad his beard is not a foot long and that it seems clean. In fact, I remember being tempted to stroke it, just to see if the wiry strands would feel soft or prickly beneath my fingertips.

I remember him smelling good, too, as I snuggled against him, in spite of the fact that I cannot tell when the last time he had a bath. Yes, I caught a whiff of something fishy, but I also smelled something sweet, like honey, and the warm aroma of fresh cedar.

I close my eyes, breathing in.

Ah. I can pick up the scent of him here, too.

I get out of the room, stepping into the other one, where the scent is fainter, but still lingers in the air.

It is a bedroom not a whole lot bigger than the bathroom. There is not even a bed, just a mattress covering nearly the entire floor with a quilt and plenty of small, round pillows on top of it. And there is no window, just a woven tapestry on one wall. A closet stands against the opposite wall. There is nothing else in sight.

Well, it is cozy.

But wait. If there is only one bedroom and one bed, then...

"You can have the bedroom," Bjorn says, almost making me wonder if he could read my mind, too. "I rarely use it anyway."

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?"

Well, that explains why his scent is not as strong as it was in the living room.

"Where do you sleep?"

"On the floor," he says. "On the rug." He shrugs when I stare at him. "I like being in front of the fire."

I blink. Like a dog?

I turn around, studying the rug. It is thick and clean, but I doubt if it is good enough to sleep on. Good sleep, that is.

"Are you sure?" I ask him, thinking he has got to be making this stuff up so I would feel better about taking the bed.

"Yeah. Take the bedroom. I insist."

I frown, feeling bad about letting Bjorn sleep on the rug, despite whatever stories he is telling. Then again, there is a lot to be said for taking his word for it. I do not think my back can take another night sleeping on something hard and cold. Besides, I cannot remember the last time I slept in a bed. Well, it is not a bed. Still, it is a very cozy looking mattress.

Finally, I just shrug it off. If that is what he wants, who am I to argue? "Well, if you insist."

"I do."

I nod, heading back into the bedroom. Behind the closed door I take off my other layers of clothing, Damon's clothing mostly, hanging them on the pegs behind the door.

Suddenly, I hear a knock. "Are you all right, Seraphina?"

"Yes," I answer without opening the door, glad that it locks.

"Can I get you anything? Something to eat?"

"No, thank you, I am just going to sleep."

I know it is not yet evening, but I have not caught up on my sleep yet, nor do I feel like I have recovered all my strength. Besides, the mattress is very tempting.

Oh, why am I making excuses? Who cares? No one needs a reason to sleep.

"If you feel cold, you can borrow some of my clothes," Bjorn's voice pierces the wood. "They are big, but they should keep you warm."

"Okay. Thanks."

I consider the offer after I have heard him leave, glancing at the mattress. The quilt looks warm enough. Then again, I barely have anything on and I do not want to lie down and then have to get up again just to put on more clothes.

I open the closet, taking a knitted orange sweater off its hanger, one with kangaroo pockets for my hands.

I put it on, delighting in Bjorn's smell that I get from it and in its warmth. As I put my hands into the pockets, though, I pause, realizing they are not empty.

I pull out the folded piece of thin cardboard.

No, not cardboard. A photo.

That of a woman in her late twenties with the same black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin as Bjorn, a red and black striped poncho wrapped around her shoulders. Not just that. In the photo, she is wearing the same necklace with the leather cord and the wooden bear pendant as Bjorn. And she is smiling, a sunflower tucked behind one of her ears.

My eyes widen.

I did not think Bjorn had a girlfriend. Or maybe he does not have one now? Maybe he has not worn this sweater in years and the last time he did, he was still seeing someone. No that is silly. She looks too much like him to be mistaken for anything else. Family then.

I run my fingers over the photo.

Who can she be?

I shake my head, putting the photo back in the pocket of another sweater before closing the closet.

At any rate, it is none of my business. Bjorn may have saved me from a bunch of assholes, brought me to Reykjavík, and welcomed me into his home, but we are not friends.

Are we?

Even if we are, I must not pry. It is not like I have told him any of my secrets. He has no obligation to tell me his.

Still, I cannot help but wonder what kind of person I am staying with. I mean, what do I know really about Bjorn? We have been together not even twenty four hours and the most I can say about him in his defense is he let me sleep in his arms last night for a while without getting pervy. It is kind of a flimsy basis to go home with a guy.

Somewhat uneasy I pull the quilt over my head.