InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Metempsychosis ❯ Reevaluation ( Chapter 69 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Stepping off the bottom of the staircase, her feet whispering against the floor, Jessa bit her lip as she ran the long tail of hair through her hands in an idle kind of way, staring at the short hallway that led to Ashur's office.

He'd retired in there after dinner to look at a few files, he'd said.  She'd just finished tucking in Kells, reading him a bedtime story, and then, indulged in a long, leisurely shower.  Then she'd grabbed her hair brush—it was stuffed into the pocket of the bathrobe—but she'd spotted the long tail of hair that she'd left on his pillow the day she'd left.  He had it, sitting on his nightstand, and she'd wrinkled her nose when she picked it up.  Why he was keeping it was a little strange, or maybe he simply hadn't thought to throw it away yet.  Either way, she was back, and she wasn't going anywhere, so he really didn't need it now . . .

She started toward the kitchen to throw it away, but pivoted on her heel, padding down the short hall to stand in the open doorway of his office where she leaned against the frame, still pulling the long tail of hair through her hand, over and over again, a small smile surfacing as she watched him, frowning so seriously at the smallish black plastic folder—he'd called it a slim-file—he held.

She cleared her throat after a minute, just loudly enough to draw his attention.  He glanced up at her, only to do a double-take, his lips turning up as just a hint of a smile appeared.  "I like the turban," he remarked, settling back in his chair as he closed the file and set it aside.

Giggling softly, she held onto the ribbon around the tail of hair and flipped her wrist, sending the tail flying back and forth.  "Well, if you're not busy, I thought you said you wanted to brush my hair out for me," she reminded him, biting her lip as a strange sense of nervousness erupted in her stomach.  She supposed it couldn't be helped.  After all, what if he were just placating her at the time—telling her something that sounded nice, even if he really hadn't meant it at all . . .?

He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers to draw her closer.

Pushing away from the doorway, she dug the brush out of her pocket.  "You . . . You don't have to if you don't want to," she said, casting him what could only be described as an apologetic sort of look.

"Because you think I only said that to be nice?" he concluded.  He reached for her hand, pulled her gently into his lap as he scooted the chair back from the desk.  Settling her sideways, he took the brush and gently tugged the towel from her hair, letting the riot of tangled and dampened locks fall free.

"I've never met a soul who actually wanted to deal with this mess," she admitted with a little shrug as he carefully worked the snarls out of her hair.  "Ma used to have my nanny braid my hair every night, but it always worked itself loose, ended up a worse mess, come morn . . ."

He snorted.  "I'm not nearly so benevolent that I'd bother to lie to you, Jessa.  Lies have a way of coming back to bite you, so if I tell you something, then you should just believe it, all right?"

She nodded, a vague frown, drawing her brows together as she stiffened a little at the censure in his tone.  "I . . . I wasn't trying to question you.  I just . . ."

He sighed.  "You just don't believe anyone who ever compliments you, do you?" he asked quietly.

"I-It's no' tha’ . . ."

"Hmm . . . Then why are you slipping into your brogue, Amaterasu?" he countered gently.

"You're a strange man, Ashur Philips," she tried to tease, flicking him with the tail in her hand as she tried to steer the conversation away from the current topic.

"And what are you doing with that?" he asked, gathering her hair over her shoulders, dragging the brush through it in a slow, almost languorous pull.

"This?  Oh, I was going to throw it away.  I mean, I'm back now, so you don't need it, and—"

"Yeah, no, you're not," he said, neatly grabbing it out of her slack hand.  "It's mine, remember?  You left it for me."

"It's . . . It's just hair," she pointed out with a frown.  "Why ever would you want to keep it, in the first place?"

"It's not just hair," he told her.  "It's your hair, and I know I've told you before that I . . . I love your hair—everything about your hair.  What I don't like is when you belittle your . . . hair . . . when you think your hair is less than what it is."

She turned just far enough to cast him a confused little look since she knew well enough that he wasn't talking just about her hair. But she wasn't entirely sure what he was talking about, instead . . . "I still don't see why you want this hair—" She grabbed at the tail in his hand but missed when he pulled his hand back.  "—when you have this hair," she said, shaking her head at him to emphasize her point.

"It all came from you, and even then, it was a gift—a gift.  You can't take back a gift once you give it."  That said, he leaned to the side, yanking open one of the drawers where he stashed the hair in question and slammed the drawer closed again.  She heard a very distinct click as a lock snapped into place, and she rolled her eyes.

"You're acting strange," she pointed out.  Suddenly she frowned.  "Speaking of strange . . . Did you notice how quiet Kells was over dinner?"

"Kells?"  Ashur considered her question, but shrugged.  "Maybe he's just tired."

She bit her lip.  "Ma-a-aybe," she allowed slowly, dragging out the word as she considered it.  She couldn't keep the hint of doubt out of her tone, though.  "When I asked him how school was today, he didn't really answer me . . ."

Stroking her hair, he pulled her a little closer against him, his hands idly rubbing her hip through the rough fabric of the thick bathrobe.  "His teacher didn't mention anything when I picked him up."

She frowned.  "Maybe I'm just reading too much into it," she ventured.  "It's just . . . Kids are cruel, and he's so small . . ."

"I'll talk to his teacher tomorrow when I drop him off, see if anything's going on.  Okay?"  She heard the hint of tolerance in his tone, like he was simply humoring her and very little more, and he kissed her temple.

She nodded and started to stand up.  His arms slipped around her waist, holding her still.  She managed a wan smile, despite the misgivings in her head.  "Aren't you busy?  You seemed to be when I interrupted . . ."

"Nothing that can't wait," he told her.  "If you're ready for bed . . ."

"Not yet," she replied, pulling his hands apart so that she could stand up.  "I'll get you a drink, if you'd like."

"All right."

She slipped out of the office and sighed.  Sure, she could understand why Ashur wasn't ready to think that something might be wrong with Kells.  Jessa, on the other hand . . . She couldn't quite shake the expression on the boy's face, the sense of sadness, almost dread . . . She knew that look just a little too well, didn't she?  Knew it because she'd lived with it, too . . . When the girls had first started teasing her . . .

The trouble was, if Kells didn't want to talk about it, she certainly couldn't make him, and, in the event that she was entirely wrong, she didn't want to upset him, either . . .

Taking her time in pouring Ashur a glass of cognac, along with a glass of wine for herself, Jessa sighed, pausing long enough to push her hair back out of her face before retrieving both glasses and heading back to Ashur's office once more.

She paused in the doorway, frowning when she noticed that he'd retrieved the ribbon-tied bundle of hair from the drawer, but what stilled her, stopped her, was the way he was looking at it.  There was a quietness about him: a calm that she wasn't sure she understood.  It was almost as though just looking at it was lending him some sort of peace, but that . . . That couldn't be, could it . . .?  It was just . . . just hair . . . really horrible, ungodly laughable hair . . .

'Except . . . Except he doesn't think that at all, now does he?'

'Oh, it's you.  I thought you weren't going to talk to me anymore . . .'

'Well, I'm stuck with you, and I'm a little bored.  Anyway, I think it's darling.'

Biting her lip as she let her temple fall against the doorframe, she tried to make sense of it.  'What?  That he's staring at my hair, of all things?'

Her youkai-voice sighed.  'You know, right, that your darling ma really didn't do you any favors. Drilling all of her nonsense into your head . . . Maybe she had noble intentions, maybe she didn't, but you know, all of those things weren't natural.  Think about it, won't you?  In the length of time that you've known him, have you ever, ever, even once, ever heard Ashur tell Kells anything even remotely like the things you were raised to hear?  No, you haven't, and do you know why?  Because that man—that man—understands pain.  He understands it because he's lived it, and he refuses to allow Kells to live it, too . . . Your mother, God rest her . . . She loved you; of course, she did.  But she did you more harm than good in those things that she said, over and over again.'

'Ma . . . She only wanted what was best for me,' Jessa argued.  'She—'

'That may be so, but it doesn't change the facts, Jessa.  Her concern for you . . . It wasn't natural, wasn't normal, and because of that you cannot see what's directly in front of you, do you know?'

'And . . . And just what is that?'

'I could tell you, but I won't.  Lass, talk to your mate.  Ask him those things that you can't bear to say out loud—those things that you want to know, but you hear your mother's voice, stopping you, every time.  Just ask him because he's right.  He doesn't lie to you.  He never has.'

'He . . . He never has . . .'

Blinking quickly as her youkai-voice faded, Jessa watched as Ashur brought the ponytail to his nose, rubbed it against his cheek, his eyes taking on an incandescent sort of glow.  As she watched him, that uncomfortable sort of self-consciousness seemed to fade.  It didn't disappear entirely, no, but it didn't make her want to turn away.

'He . . . He really doesn't . . . hate it . . .'

"I was just putting things away," he said suddenly though he had yet to meet her gaze, breaking the silence as he stuck the hair in the drawer again and touched the lock to secure it.  Then he stood up, wandering over to her to shut the lights off before reaching for his drink.  "Thank you."

She led the way through the house, upstairs, only to pause at Kells' door, peeking inside with a smile.  He was sleeping soundly, and she handed him her glass so that she could pull the blankets up to his chin and kiss him on the forehead.  Ruffling his hair, she lingered another long moment before turning away and slipping back out of his room with a sigh.  "That child . . ."

Handing her back her glass, Ashur slipped his arm around her waist to lead her toward their room.  "You . . . You . . . love him, don't you?"

"Of course, I do," she replied.  "How could anyone not love him?"

"Maybe, but there are times—Christmas, for example—when I wished that people didn't love him quite so much . . ."

Rolling her eyes at his dry statement, she sipped the wine and set the glass aside, wandering around the room in a restless kind of way.  Stepping over to the French doors, she pulled them open, stepped outside into the brisk night air, drawing in deep breaths, letting the clean, fresh wash of it strip away the lingering doubts, the insecurities that seemed to follow her around.

"So, how did your luncheon go?" Ashur asked, following her onto the balcony.  "I meant to ask earlier . . ."

Jessa flicked a hand, igniting small orbs of fire along the perimeter of the wall.  "It was good," she told him, casting him an uncertain little smile.  "It was actually really . . . I like her—Clementine.  I told her that I didn't know if I could accept her offer to join the board of directors.  I don't know much about theatre, but she is absolutely the sweetest woman . . ."

"Whatever you want to do, Jessa," he told her, slipping his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest.  He'd taken off his shirt already, and the warmth of his skin was inviting . . . "The other ladies . . . They were nice to you?"

She nodded, wrapping her hands over his forearms.  "They were."

"Good."

They fell silent for awhile, both of them lost in their own thoughts, she supposed.  It wasn't an uncomfortable thing, though.  Pondering the advice her youkai had given her, even if she hadn't wanted it, she wasn't entirely sure just what to do about it.  It was one thing for her youkai to tell her to ask those questions.  It was another thing entirely for her to be able to do it, and even if she could, was it true?  All those things her mother had always said to her from a time that she couldn't even remember, how in the world was she supposed to ignore it all?

"Jessa?"

"Hmm?"

Ashur sighed, leading her back inside, closing the doors behind them.  "Do you still think that my taking you as my mate was an accident?"

Her back stiffened.  She could feel it.  Wrapping her arms over her stomach, she shuffled over to retrieve her glass of wine.  "W-Was it?" she forced herself to ask, her voice, barely above a whisper.

She heard him sigh, heard him as he removed his pants, as he sat on the bed.  "Will you come here?" he asked.

She downed the wine before slowly turning to face him, unable to control the blush that shot to the fore when she realized that he was naked, settled back on the bed against his pillows, holding a hand out to her, beckoning her to join him.  Slowly, hesitantly, she slipped her hand into his, allowed him to tug her down against him, nestled in the crook of his arm, her cheek against his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms around her.  "To answer your question, there wasn't a condom, so it didn't rip.  There was no accident.  I knew what I was doing, and I . . . I thought you wanted it, too . . ."

"O-Oh," she breathed, unsure why his confession didn't surprise her as much as it should have.  She'd thought that it was an accident, hadn't she?  But if she'd believed that—truly believed that . . . Maybe . . . Maybe some small part of her knew, had always known . . . and maybe . . .

"Are you—?  I mean, you don't . . .?" He uttered a terse growl.  "You're . . . okay . . . with it?  I should have talked it over with you. I know.  I get it.  It was . . . was a high-handed thing to do, and I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry that I claimed you.  Jessa . . . I know that you're my mate.  I know it, and if . . . if I know it, then . . . Then don't you . . .?"

"I . . ." Trailing off, she bit her lip, shook her head, struggling to gather her scattered courage. She could feel it, couldn’t she?  The weight of her answer . . . She hated the feeling of vulnerability, as though the truth of what she needed to say had the power to leave her exposed, naked . . . "I . . . I don't know," she murmured, grimacing as he tensed, as his youki surged.  "I . . . want you to be . . ."

The tension in him seemed to drain away in the space of a breath, a blink of an eye.  Arms tightening around her, he kissed her temple, pulled her a little closer.  "Thank God," he muttered, sounding more relieved than Jessa could credit.  "Thank God . . ."

"Ashur?"

"Hmm?"

"You . . . You're squishing me . . ."

Immediately, his arms loosened, but not enough to let her scoot away, either, and she smiled to herself, slipping her bent knee over his legs, rubbing her foot against him in a slow, lethargic kind of way.  "I'll . . . I'll do my best to be a good mate," she told him.

He chuckled.  "Just be yourself, Jessa.  That's all I've ever wanted.  That and . . . I want you to talk to me.  I want you to tell me things, even if you think I won't like it.  I want you to know that you can ask me anything—anything—no matter what.  You . . . You have that right."

"So . . . I can ask you . . . anything . . .?" she mused.

"Yes.  For example, if you want to use my body, all you have to do is ask.  I . . . I'd let you, you know.  I mean, it might be a bit of a stretch, but if it's for you . . ."

She giggled, but gave him a playful little shove despite the blush that exploded under her skin.  "I'm not asking that!"

He heaved a sigh.  "Are you sure?  I mean, I don't think I'd mind it if you did . . ."

She buried her face against his chest for a moment, then leaned up suddenly to look at him as a sudden thought came to her.  "Will you make me more flowers?"

He blinked, craned his neck to look down at her.  "Right now?"

"Well, not right now . . . Maybe tomorrow?"

He smiled.  "If that's what you want," he told her.  "Right now, though . . ."

She sighed when he rolled onto his side, his lips finding hers as the gentle wash of his youki surrounded her, held her close.  Kissing every inch of her face, stroking her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, he took his time, his every move, his every touch, full of such tenderness, such an underlying sweetness, that it brought tears to Jessa's eyes.

He leaned back, scowling down at her as he wiped the tears off her cheeks, as he slowly shook his head.  "Jessa?  Why . . .?"

She shook her head, choked out a half-sob, half-laugh.  "I'm happy," she admitted quietly.

He sighed, stroking her jaw with the back of his knuckles.  "Good.  I intend to keep you that way."

Turning her face toward his hand, she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the feel of his touch.  He was trying to be affectionate, sweet, and she knew that, but even that was enough to set off a chain reaction, an influx of desire so strong, so fierce, that it made her shiver.  Letting his hand fall away, he untied the feminine bow of her robe, slipped it off her shoulders as she pulled her arms free.  She reached out to him, but he caught her hand, kissed the bend of her wrist, dragging his fangs along the sensitive flesh of her inner arm with maddening lethargy, then kissed his way up her arm, his breath rippling over her like a heady caress.  Nibbling her shoulder, the balm of his tongue flicked out against her collar bone, she trembled as a rampant burn swept through her—fierce, unyielding—entirely at odds with the flutter of his lips against her.

There was a nuance in his every move, an underlying wonder in him as he explored her skin.  As though he were trying to tell her, just how precious she was to him, the understanding left her reeling, breathless.  She could feel his unspoken affection, something that transcended the physical.  It was a slow understanding, more of a whisper of truth in the air.  It was one of the first times in her life that she truly felt beautiful, and that feeling . . .

Sighing against her skin, the warmth of his breath, condensing like the morning dew, that soft blanket of diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in those moments, those vague and fleeting moments, when the morning sun kissed them, as close as a lover . . .

Lifting her body, seeking the repletion that he could give her, she uttered a plaintive little moan.  Every part of her felt as though it was winding tighter and tighter, a configuration of want and need.  He soothed her with the softest kisses, with strokes of his fingertips over the crazy burn that he'd built.  Running her fingers up and down his back, she tossed and writhed under him, against him, only to be shushed like a child, his finger against her lips.  "Let me," he said, his voice ragged, almost harsh.

Dragging his chest over hers, his body moving in a fluid stroke, he groaned softly, his body trembling under the strain as he willed himself to slow down.  She gasped, the tease of contact delicious and yet, entirely frustrating, at the same time.  The velvet of his skin, the delirious friction, the rub against her hardened nipples as she arched her back, as she let her head fall against the pillows while shockwave after tactile shockwave rattled through her.  It was torture, pure and simple.  The instinct of her body was overridden by his control, both as beautiful as it was maddening, as brilliant as the afternoon sun, as wanton as a brushfire, burning out of control . . .

"I want you, Jessa," he murmured, kissing her lips once more, teasing her softly, his words slamming through her.  "God, I want you . . ."

She reached down, grasped him firmly in her hand, in silent answer, lifting her hips as she pulled him down, as he slid into her with a delicious fluidity.  He shuddered, groaned, his kiss deepening, searching her, savoring her, as he ground his hips against her.  Hands slipping up over his sides, his arms, she sank her fingers deep in his hair as he pulsated deep inside her, as he twitched and jerked, his breath stuttering, reaching . . .

He pushed himself up, grasping her legs, settling them over his shoulders before crashing down on her again, thrusting deep as she squeaked out a sharp moan.  The incredible fullness, the welcome pressure that built and built within her, tightened around that central ache, the sweetest torment that bordered so closely on pleasure, but wasn't quite there . . . She felt him as he thickened, as he quaked.  One more thrust snapped the last strand that held her, plunging her deep, lifting her high as the burning gush of his orgasm fueled hers, sending her even higher, her youki spiraling out of control as the edges of his caught her, carried her, protected her, as she drifted back down to him once more.

The sound of their labored breathing echoed in the silence.  After what seemed like forever, Jessa finally opened her eyes.  Curled against Ashur, halfway sprawled on him, halfway curled against his side, she laughed suddenly as he slowly opened his eyes.  She kissed him as he tangled his hands in the length of her hair.  "Tired, Jessa?" he asked, kissing her forehead when she snuggled back down again.

"No," she said, which might have been far more effective if she didn't yawn right afterward.

He chuckled and gave her a little squeeze, turning just enough to wrap himself around her.  "Go to sleep before I change my mind," he warned her.

She didn't know if she managed to answer him or not.  The last thing she felt as she let her eyes drift closed, as the welcoming invitation of sleep called to her as though from somewhere far away, was the idle and soothing stroke of his hand in her hair, of his lips as he kissed her forehead.