Portrait of a Swallow

Carmine

Nine months prior

"It's better not to run," his voice echoing around her, ringing in her ears like a blood curdling scream that she wishes she can squeeze out of her throat, but it's all for naught, for her throat sand paper dry, barely able to get out a whimper. She traverses through the lines upon lines of clothes, and she can make out of the faint light beaming through the back door. Just as she is close enough, so close to calling his name for help, she feels the sharp tug on her elbow, a large hand muffling her scream.

He pulls her in the small crevice between the house and the tool shed. Her eyes were shut as she didn't want to accept the reality of what was to come. But the fear that was bubbling deep inside her chest never realized, for the next thing she felt was the tender swipe of a thumb over her cheek, brushing away the lone tear that had escaped from her eye, the calloused thumb soft against her skin. Fluttering her eyes open, she met the gaze of her quiet painter, his warm hand encapsulating her mouth his stare unwavering.

A downpour begins, the rainfall beating down on their paralyzed bodies, the droplets seeping into their clothing, desperate to wash away the fear of what could have been. The sky darkens, the crisp, clear serenity of the afternoon now transforming into a turbulent storm, the shade of darkness enveloping them. Beneath his hand he can feel the tremble of her lips, the quiver of the sensual pout that graces her innocent beauty, the wet warmth of her breath against his large palm, and it takes everything in his power not to reassure her with his lips on hers.

Instead, he places his forehead on hers, ever so lightly, their skin barely grazing, their breaths set at a ragged pace, as they inhale the other's worries and fears. She crumbles underneath his touch, a sob escaping her throat as he gathers her in his embrace, his large hand curled around the back of her head holding her close as she succumbs to the relief of her safety.

As he waits for the calming of her heartbeat, her beating organ bounding wildly out of her chest, his eyes scour the lines upon lines of clothes for Cho Choel Gang, but instead, in his field of vision, only Sang-ah appears, concern painted upon her otherwise stark features.

"What happened, Master Ri?" she questions as she runs towards them, her eyes bulging at the intimate posturing of her employer and maid. The intonation of her voice seems facetious, but currently his mind is on the maiden whose hands have wrung themselves into his shirt, her knuckles blanching a blinding white with the force she is holding onto him.

"Where is Cho Choel Gang-ssi?" He asks, his voice fierce with determination and fury, that even the sudden downpour does little to water down his anger.

"He left, Sir, about ten minutes ago. He said hehad somewhere to be," Sang-ah relays, though in her mind she knows the tricksthat the patron has been conjuring, the stealth of his seedy touches againstthe virgin skin of the maiden.

 "He's not to come back!" the gentle painter's voice booming uncharacteristically, the vibrations of his bellowing reverberating through Seri's flesh, causing her to wince, the oscillations humming through the air, the rain doing little to dampen it.

"Yes, Sir, I will make sure," Sang-ah states, as she bows deeply and ushers them inside to find respite from the flash rainstorm....

***

He convinces her to stay for the night, fearful to send her home after the events of the day. After Sang-ah leaves for the night, he bashfully guides her to where the guest room is, offering to start a fire for her so she could dry off. Nodding slightly, she watches him set up the logs and ignite the match, his wet clothes clinging to the expanse of his back accentuating the rippled muscles underneath, his tousled hair dripping on the floor. Her teeth were chattering, the rain gluing her dress to her skin in an almost immodest fashion. She had an overwhelming urge to run her hands through his hair, to feel the silky strands on her fingers as her hands burrowed through his locks, but held back in restraint.