Undone by a Broken Angel

36.) The Gift

“Leave your gift there before the altar and go.  First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.”

-Matthew 5:24

Abraham:

He’s never given anything to a woman before, not even Sarah from the inn he frequents on his travels.  He never had anything worth giving to a woman nor did he want to.  This feeling in him is foreign and makes him fidgety with anxiety. What if she doesn’t like it?  What if he rejects his gift?  What would his mother have said?  Would she have been offended?  Reminding himself that it may have nothing to do with his mother’s taste and everything to do with her culture.  Since the time he found her in the ballroom, she’s only ever worn white dresses.  From what he knows, in most European cultures, girls aren’t allowed to wear any color whatsoever.  Abe, however, is painfully aware that she is not a girl, if her exposed breasts have anything to say about it.

He forces himself to stop looking, but it helps the charge he feels towards her when she wraps her towel around her slim, strong body.  The voice is slowly making a comeback and he doesn't want it to find him with his guard lowered.  For now, he’s going to be the gentleman his mother would have been proud of.

In her bedroom, he laid out his mother’s dress.  It’s not that old; if his memory serves right, she had just had the dress made in order to travel back to Eden in.  Despite it being durable material, it flows well and doesn't’ take away from it’s elegance at all.  The front cuts low, below the limits of cleavage, and sparkles along the inside edges with cleverly hidden jewels.  The heavy skirts are separate from the top section of the dress to make it easier to dress and undress.  It was something his mother insisted upon even when the fashion norms of the time dictated that she wear dresses more indicative of the fashions in Eden.  She refused, being conscious of the miles between here and there.  He’s thankful for her decision now, even if she never got to wear it, so that it would be available for Abby.  He notes the color again and imagines how wonderful it will look against her porcelain skin.

If she agrees to his gift, that is.

She pulls the towel around her tighter, the cold clearly making her shiver.  Her eyes fall onto the rich green fabric draped off the edge of her mattress and it’s hard for him to read her expression.  Is she pleased?  Disappointed?  Annoyed?  Disgusted?

His anxiety rises and he begins to sweat around his collar.  Tugging on it nervously, it feels like eternity until she finally says, “it’s green.”

It’s green?  What does that mean?  He opens and closes his mouth, trying to articulate the frustration and confusion circling in his brain.  Does he have no brain cells?  Finding one in this moment seems impossible.  “It was my mother’s,” he blurts out.  What does that have to do with the color?

Her head snaps up to look at his face and he freezes, not knowing what his face is giving away.  Not able to look into her eyes, he trains his eyes onto the walls, the bed, anything to avoid her searching gaze.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushes to say, placing a hand on his bicep.  “I’ve just never worn colors before.  It’s a very rich color and it threw me off.”

He looks at her now questioningly.  “Why is that?  Why only white?”

She looks down at her feet as emotion washes over her.  He can see her shoulders bend down in sadness.  “When I became a woman,” her words are filled with meaning, indicating this is when she started her cycle for the first time, “I was to celebrate my next birthday as the birthday I could start wearing colorful clothing.  It was a symbol that I was available for marriage.  It was when my wings started to come in and my....”  She gets choked up and is forced to stop talking in order to keep the tears from falling.

His chest tightens at her sadness and wishes he could go back in time to protect her from whatever traumatic event her parents had inflicted on her.  Curiosity getting the best of him, he encourages her to continue, knowing first hand that talking about it helps.

“My guardians then announced my death and I was locked away,” she finishes, finding the courage to say the words out loud.

Angry that adults would go so far as to tell the world that their daughter was dead just to save them embarrassment, his jaw clenches and he fists his hands.

“But the thing is,” she continues, looking at him straight in his eyes, her face hard with earnestness, “I don’t want to be available.  If I wear this dress, it’s for you, and no one else.”  She moves away from him then, leaving him stunned and elated at the same time, and picks up the top portion of the dress, holds the top portion of the dress up at the straps with her pointer fingers.  “Your mother was well endowed,” she dead pans, throwing a teasing glance over her shoulder.

Stress melts off of him, but he’s still worried about leaving her.  Undeterred by the fact that she’ll only wear the dress for him, he’ll still leave.  He has to.  But the joke sparks a laugh that makes its way up from his gut, mirth reaching his eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she tells him, “she had terrific taste.”

She drops her towel with zero ceremony, and his laugh dies in his throat.  Her bare cheeks are perfectly round and taught from the recent flying and walking they’ve recently undergone.  She slips the top on, the fabric laying firmly around her curves, looking silky despite the thick fabric.  Then she steps into the skirt, allowing him to fasten it above her hips with a loopy tie.  He tucks it under the top to hide it from view.

When she turns to face him, he’s breath escapes his lungs in a rush of joy, a feeling he rarely experiences.

Although, the top is loose and needs adjustment before he’d ever allow her to wear it around others.

No.  That’s not right.  His thoughts have gotten away from him.  Whoever she choses as her husband will have the right to tell her what’s appropriate and inappropriate to wear around others.  Not that she wouldn't know herself.  He just can’t imagine others seeing what is allowed for a husband's eyes only.  He wouldn’t like to share, if he were her husband.

Does that mean he’s crossing a line with her even though it feels so right?

Is it even crossing a line when Queen Katrina, her mother, chose him from the start to be her husband?  If she only knew what was going to happen to him.

“What?” she asks, uncomfortable under his gaze.

He was right on all accounts.  The deep green looks perfect against her skin and it highlights all her curves that he can’t help but admire.  “It brings out the green in your eyes,” he replies sweetly because telling her how...lustful she makes him would be too dangerous to admit.

“Let's get this altered, and then we can move onto your hair,” he says, pulling on the loose fabric, his fingertips brushing the soft skin of her breaths.  His breath hitches and she flushes.  Their eyes meet for a moment before they look away hurriedly.  Yep.  He’s definitely crossing a line.

Once the dress is fixed, her cleavage showing elegantly, he sits her down to brush her hair.  In her bathroom, there is a dresser with a mirror on it and with her sitting before it, she runs a brush through her dark hair.  Starting from the ends, he works her way up, marveling at how thick and soft her wavy locks are.  He runs her fingers through it and he loses them in it, her curls seemingly endless.  She closes her eyes, soaking in the bliss of someone playing with her hair and hums, the sound burning under his skin again.  Ignoring the slight pain, he pulls her hair out of her face.

“It’s gotten long,” she notes.  “Do you think I should cut it?”

“I have neither the time nor the skill for that, I’m afraid.  Maybe Dianna can help you,” he suggests, twisting her hair up and pinning it in place.  He uses his fingers to separate locks he needs from those he doesn’t and secures them with a clip in the back of her head.  With her hair away from her face, it looks like her neck is a mile long, and he strokes it with the back of his fingers.  She tilts her head to give him a better angle.  It’s irresistible, he feels, and bends down to press his lips against her pulsing artery, feeling how rapid her heart is beating.

He groans.

“Have you done this before?” she wonders, saving him from his next actions.

“No, but I watched my mother do this a lot for a little girl that used to live here,” he remembers.  There was a baby, he knows, and as she grew, his mother would fix her hair and he’d watch, enamored by how easily she could make hair look so transformed.

That’s when they hear a knock on the door, Dianna announcing it’s time for dinner.