Ishmael walked in through the door of the master bedroom; eyelids leaden—wilting his vision, hair falling down his nap tousled—waving through copiously in soft corners.
His gaze summarily, rather instinctively hunted for his wife: on the bed.
She was not there, nor her presence warmed any cold agapes in this prodigious reach.
His brows dropped, crinkled his honey shaded skin in between.
Ishmael's scrutiny then drew to the white, cozy crib with two seperate spaces for sleeping. And he was now proceeding his way to the cot.
Adorned a small curve up on the brims of his lips. The two tiny souls he had with the woman he was devoted to; the only person he adored, he had never thought this heart could thrum in rapture for anyone but her.
But here, the children Neva carried and birthed for him. They were beautiful... And so wonderful, hush and sleeping in serenity.
The glinstening eyes mirrored the melting of the heart in love.
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
Endeavouring to force in his ecstacy; for he feared, this ocean of happiness always summoned him the apocalypse of universe.
He smiled at Inaya's puckered lips.
His callous hand reaching to graze the round cheek of the little girl, covered in warm beige pink sleepsuit under the blanket.
It shuddered him in disbelief.
There was a tingling in his fingertips, a rushing stream through the veins the softness of his sweet child—the euphoria her warm mellow cheek ignited.
Reluctantly he peeled away his hand. And Ishmael shifted his glimpse down at the dreaming little boy beside; an unearthly bloom in his hardened features as he peered down at the pureness of the twins, thawing a perfect month old today.
A shaky sigh departed from his lips; he would do anything, everything to protect this family, his world that gave meaning to this incoherent existence.
He paced towards the open balcony, and he was breathing in succour.
Tensed muscles loosening as Neva rested in the cocoon of the vast swinging lounge chair, all curled up beneath the duvet.
Her line of sight threaded to the garden in the backyard of the mansion.
And beyond the concrete walls were the naked woods powdered in snow.
But her eyes, pale and empty, they reflected the miracle of the sunny noon rays, the mystery of the contrasting woods swallowed in white, the garden of thriving, scarlet winter roses below, nevertheless; the scenery didn't secure a forthcoming memory in her mind.
"Neva,"
Ishmael's chasmal's voice trawled the consciousness of her stiffened form.
She turned her head to peer up at him approaching her.
"Have you finished work?" Neva furnished a query, her tone gentle.
He smiled at her. "I have."
He had been buried in his cabin for half the day, it was a bother to be not in her embrace for every single pulse of the clock.
He made him a seat beside her.
And as he claimed the gap on the chair—his arms on cue entangled around her frame.
He lay his head on her shoulder.
Eyes closing; soaking in her symphonic heat, her feathery breathing, her pleasant spirit guiding him home.
"It's quite cold, get under the covers." Neva conveyed, her voice humming and velvety, thrumming comfortable vibrations straight to his core.
He simply nodded, still so close and attached to her.
Ishmael was drowsy, he was always drunk with her, for he inhaled the sweetest purple grape wine in the air fluttering around her.
Neva slightly nudged him away, but he was adamant to stay one with the flesh, so she gingerly made an agape between them, enough to strip an edge and wrap the duvet around his perfectly virile body.
He was once again succumbed her in his embrace, his weight swaying her to lean against the backrest of the swaggering chair.
They lay cuddled up, his pressure tolerably conforming almost unbreathable for her. She sighed, hands caressing his head placed on her chest—fingers stroking his long smooth locks.
The slow swirling sun in the bright blue sky, the weather lukewarm, layered of snow reducing on the pine trees, the undressed trees—droplets of water splashing on the ivory ground. A breeze drifted around her, danced her flared onyx waves, brushing her bare face, her rosy cheeks, the svelte, sharp chillness shuddering her lightly.
"Do you want me to get another blanket?" Ishmael asked, the throbbing of his words in sync with the rumbling of the chests, trickling poetic familiarity in the soul of her heart.
"It's fine," Neva responded, flustered, in a daze.
He raised his head to glance at her eyes.
And was he lost, lost everything of himself in the wide cocoa pools—glistening golden iris; his own warm autumn.
"Is something wrong?" Neva asked, prettiest brows arched up.
He shook his head, chin beared on her chest, tangling an aureate string to her eyes.
"You are a feeling beyond paradise. Every phrase and belief ever existed betrays what you are to me." Ishmael whispered.
He was portraying a dream–like imagery.
The dilated pupils staring at him stunned, the feverish skin creeping in a darker blush.
She cleared her throat, gazing away from him. He chuckled, painting a shy portrait of Neva with admiration, his knuckles—lovingly caressing, fondling down her heated cheek.
They stayed there tangled for an ergonomic while.
Then Neva chewed her bottom lip to muster up courage for a bubbling probe sinked her in ache.
But that day still haunted her, to split the fragile life only with a mild tug; the newborn children, the pistol to their head—and her own. The coldness of the blade; the goriness of Maria's corpse; the sense of blood and matters of minced flesh on her face.
She touched her bandaged neck.
Maria left her a scar.
Her throat running dry—she gulped to moisten.
Her spine suddenly immaneable.
Everything was fogged in the span of dread.
And these days she had recalled; it was Ishmael who blew her wrist off.
"Ishmael, can I, ask you something?" She murmered carefully, and earned a deep hum of approval.
"Do you kill people?"
The fairly snoozing Ishmael was taken aback by her frankness. His brows wrinkling in distress, he had already expected that question to come around someday, but he was yet to rip away the hard shell of fear encasing him. "Yes," he revealed, abruptly tensing her form.
Neva swallowed, Ishmael's cavernous gaze holding her own wavering ones.
"If I don't, they will." He immediately cleared.
And it washed her uneasy features in a frown.
"What does it mean?" She squeezed out.
He sucked in a deep breath, rallying to sort out the nearing messy words.
"Being a homeless sixteen year old, I didn't have it easy in a completely different world. One night, while I wondered through an alley, I saw a teenager getting beaten up by some street gang. I interfered and rescued him. Getting myself battered."
Neva calmly listened to him, with confusion and emphathy swirling in her appearance.
"That guy was Jacob, you've met him." He briefed.
She dizzily nodded in enlightenment.
Her lips pursed, and brows raised—urging him to continue.
"His father was not a simple man. Jacob convinced him, and they took me in.
I looked up to him; he was a self-made man, climbing up from dirt to stairs of gold."
"No matter the virtuous amount of blood sweat and tears could've made him the baleful drug lord he was." His misty gaze floated in nostalgia of both the misery and pleasure of wildness.
Neva didn't miss the fall in his demeanour, so she rubbed his back.
She yeilded from him a small smile as their gaze threaded again.
"I too was not spared Neva. It was my own will to favor the illicit route to be who I am today. This spawned me many enemies, forcing a choice to kill; or be killed." He sequeled.
And her tender watery meres mellowed his own.
"Where did you sleep before you met Jacob?" Neva inquired, her arms around him unknown to her squeezing him into.
"Alleyways, under bridges, underground train stations, anywhere." Ishmael replied, sprinkling pain in Neva's soul—tears in a blink wetting her face.
"What did you eat?" Neva with difficulty strained out.
"Sometimes I stole, or picked scraps of foods from bins." Ishmael's declaration had Neva's lips tremble, a choked sob escaping her.
She could never imagine the loneliness he suffered, hungry and cold, with no shelter in storms. It was shattering her brutally, agonizing stabs to her chest, somewhere she was, perhaps aware; she was at fault.
Wearing a worried countenance, he hoisted his upper body up.
He wiped her tears. And he kissed her forehead, pressing her up against him.
Whimpers flowed out Neva, breaking his heart.
Ishmael buried himself in the crook of her neck, she was sniffing—gripping onto his body, her chin shored on his broad shoulder.
Then out of nowhere, her misery merged with the cries of an infant, following with the opposing sniveling of the other twin, echoing loud out from their room. It preserved a void in their perspiring adherence.
"Oh. They're awake." Ishmael mumbled, resentfully having to part from her.
Neva smiled at him, drying her tears with the sweater paws.
"I'll get them." She said, but before she could arise he acted a light pressure on her shoulder to make her still.
"Let me," he said.
Neva just watched him, lingering there as he hurried inside to fetch the weeping little ones.
Soon he appeared in her sight.
Her heart flickered in affection; he was holding their babies in each cradle of his arms—shushing them benignly.
Neva arose and padded towards him.
Then she took the still bawling baby from his secure.
Her embrace calming Isaiah down.
He immediately nestled, snuggling in her tender wrap—reasurring the little heart, his careful mother's languid sways.
Recognised relief gleamed in the features of the new parents. She glimpsed down at the lulled Inaya in Ishmael's adhere, peering at her with such misty, beautiful watery eyes.
A string knotted Neva's gaze to Ishmael's own. And they shared an insightful; a sweet meaningful smile.
She had for forever appeared only in his dreams. But here she stood by him; his Neva; his wife,; the mother of his children.
He drank in the actuality, his realism, earnest stare bonded to her.
She peppered kisses, whispering honeyed words of endearment to their cherubs.
It was erupting him sensually, through a dizzying ardour for her, oblivious how to illustrate that he was swimming, floating, flying in love—in symphonic ecstasy.
The past of hurt was over; this family is blessed; the birth of the children; luring hope of goodness, warm sublime days.