The woods are silent except for the chirping of crickets. The night is clear with a chill in the air, and the silver moon and stars shine brightly in the cloudless ebony sky.
Despite the calm and peaceful atmosphere, Bishop's mind is raging.
He had enjoyed their good-natured tussle, although it did bother him when she had gotten him in an arm lock so easily. After he managed to throw her over him and pin her down, when she had suddenly cried out, her hand on her chest…
Fuming, he breaks off a twig from the tree he is sitting in, and starts to snap it into smaller pieces.
He thought he had hurt her. As he tried to help her, he had felt so guilty. For that brief moment, he had hated himself for being so thoughtless, for having completely forgotten about the healing wound in her chest, for having been so rough with her.
And then it had turned out to be one lousy joke.
Absently, his arm reaches for another branch, and he starts breaking it apart.
Yes, he had been angry. In fact, he was absolutely furious, as he still is now. Furious with her for her cruel trick, and furious with himself for falling for it in the first place.
She is a weakness of his, and he hates weaknesses.
Just leave her, he tells himself. Leave her at Crossroads Keep tomorrow and forget about her. You won't hear from her ever again.
Then she will no longer be a weakness.
He hears a rustle in the undergrowth below. Alya emerges from some bushes and spots him in the shadows of the oak tree.
He looks away before she can say anything.
"I take it you're still mad at me," he hears her say, her voice sounding chastised.
Ignoring her, he slinks deeper into the darkness.
"Bishop…"
"Go away," he growls, crossing his arms as he dangles his legs off the branch he is sitting on.
He hears her moving closer, until she is right underneath him. "Bishop, I'm sorry. It's just that, I didn't think –"
"That's the trouble, isn't it?" he interrupts. "You didn't think." He throws a quick glance below. Her neck is craned upwards as she looks at him.
"At least come down from the tree," she sighs. "I'm getting a crick in my neck."
"Which part of 'go away' did you not understand?" he asks brusquely, before saying slowly, deliberately, as if to a child, "I – don't – want you here."
Silence down below. Then, he hears some rustling, and the next thing he knows, she is on the tree branch next to his, having bounded up the oak like a cat. Despite himself, he is impressed by her agility.
Damn her stubbornness.
"I'm sorry, but I need to talk to you," she insists softly, tilting her head so that one side rests against the bark of the tree. "I feel terrible for what I did." When he doesn't reply, she goes on, "I was being stupid and insensitive. I should have known better."
Bishop has heard enough. Huffing irritably, he lowers himself off the branch, landing softly on the forest floor. He is starting to walk away when he sees Alya deftly swinging from the tree, and touching down nimbly next to him.
"Will you please leave me alone?" he snarls as he whirls away, but she holds him back with a hand on his shoulder.
"Under any other circumstances, Bishop, I would," she says, as she moves around him so that they are facing each other. She has one hand on each of his shoulder now. "But…" she falters slightly. "But with this being the last night before we reach Crossroads Keep, well…" she stops briefly, her eyes downcast. "I don't want us to part on such angry terms."
Surprised, Bishop says nothing, although his mind is demanding, why not?
"After all the hells we've been through together," she adds, as if anticipating his question. "I'd hate to leave thinking that you're still mad at me."
Bishop hesitates, his mind in turmoil. What would be the best way to forgive her without admitting he has forgiven her? And why is she being so nice to him? Why does she care what he thinks of her?
Don't give in…don't give in…don't give in…
He suddenly realises how close she actually is. Her face is barely inches away from his, and all he can see are those liquid green eyes of hers, sparkling like deep emerald pools that he could drown blissfully in.
Don't give in! Don't give in! Don't give in!
The gleaming pools shimmer, inviting him further into their depths, as she gives both his arms a gentle squeeze, "All this anger…" she muses, smiling slightly at him. "This is not the Bishop I want to remember."
She wants to remember me??
He is still standing there indecisively, in stunned silence, when Alya rises on her tiptoes, and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. There is nothing amorous about it; he has seen her give the same kind of kiss to the likes of Sand, Grobnar, and the top of Khelgar's bald head.
Just an affectionate, platonic peck…
But it is the first time she has ever kissed him…
And he finally loses control.
Before he could stop himself, he grabs her behind her head with both hands, his fingers entangled in her auburn tresses, and he presses his lips hard against hers. He hears a muffled "mmph?" of surprise as she tries to push herself away, her hands on his chest, but he holds on tightly, one arm moving to the small of her back to pull her body closer to his. He kisses her intensely, hungrily, as all his pent-up desires are finally released in a rush of passion.
Alya's resistance is brief. He soon feels her relaxing into his arms, and instead of pushing against him, her hands start to rub his chest. Her lips part as she starts to kiss him back, tentatively, almost shyly at first, before becoming more sensuous. He feels her soft, velvety lips enveloping his own bottom lip, sending a tingle down his spine. Her arms snake around his neck, and he feels her clutching at his hair. As he greedily tries to delve deeper, her mouth opens invitingly, yielding to his fervent probing. He feels her warm, moist tongue caressing his, just as her breath escapes in an involuntary sigh.
His lips never leaving hers, he pushes her up against a tree, pressing his body firmly against hers, his hands running roughly up and down her arms. The front of her robe falls open slightly, revealing a bare shoulder, her bandaged wound, and a teasing peek of her cleavage. The smell of rosewater and cinnamon invades his nose as he buries his face in her neck. He hungrily kisses the tender area around her collarbone, and he bites the soft flesh of her neck, eliciting a tiny moan from her. Her fingers travel up to his face, lightly caressing his cheeks, and he shudders under her touch. He can feel himself growing more and more aroused with each stroke of her fingertips along his jaw line.
Panting, he reaches for the drawstring on her trousers, and fumbles at the knots. Their teeth clash awkwardly as his kisses become more frantic and needy, and his longing threatens to explode inside of him. He needs to taste her, to smell her, to feel her, and the clothing separating his bare skin from hers feels like miles of agonising distance between them. At least he is not wearing his leathers; he is glad he had taken them off before their wrestling match.
He gasps when he feels her cool hands on his bare chest. She has partly unbuttoned his shirt, and has slipped both hands underneath, her kneading touch sending jolts of electrical pleasure through his body. The stirring in his loins grows almost painful as his manhood strains against the confines of his breeches.
His fingers get tangled in her cords as he clumsily tries to undo her laces. With a feral growl, he finally loosens the knot with violent yank. In his frenzied state, he thinks he hears her call his name, but he ignores it as he runs a hand down her hip, tucking his fingers under her waistband. Her skin feels smooth, soft and hot, as his hands move from her hip to her stomach, feeling the firm muscles of her abdomen beneath his fingertips.
"Bishop…" she gasps again between their breathless kisses.
From her navel, his hand moves down towards the radiating warmth. He brushes the inside of a thigh, and the first wiry strands of hair…
"No!" she cries, as his exploring hand is suddenly grabbed at the wrist, its progress halted.
Confused by her sudden resistance, and practically bursting at the seams with desire, he looks at her. Her hair is tousled, her breasts heaving, and her cat's eyes are wide.
"Don't play games with me," he rasps hoarsely.
Please don't deny me…
Desperately, he tries to thrust his hand down, but again, he is held back. She has both hands on his wrist. Her grip is vice-like, her knuckles white.
"No, please…" she pleads breathlessly, shaking her head. Is that fear in her eyes?
Please don't let this be happening…
In a flash, he realises that he has revealed too much in his brief moment of abandon…and that despite it all, he is still going to be denied.
Abruptly, he backs away from her, still breathing hard, his hunger still crying out to be sated. Her hair and clothes unkempt, she stares back at him uncertainly, even as she pulls her breeches up and re-laces them.
This can't be happening…
"You…" he pants, his eyes narrowing menacingly. "You manipulative bitch."
"Bishop, please…" she takes a step forward and reaches out towards him, but he is in no mood to listen.
With a roar of utter frustration, he pushes her roughly back into the tree trunk, and storms off into the deep, dark woods.
