PART EIGHTEEN

A summer rain drummed against Max’s rooftop, melodious and rhythmic, lulling Liz as she lay on his sofa. Over the past two months, this had become a tender habit between them—he would paint, while she read or rested on his couch, just as she’d often done at Michael’s loft.

Yet tonight was different, because Max had shyly asked to paint her portrait, indicating that he had something special in mind. He’d already been working on it for several hours, studying her quietly from the studio while he painted. Each time he glanced in her direction, his eyes seemed to grow moodier, filled with undeniable need.

And her body answered every glance, every gesture he made toward her. Truthfully, the longer she lay beneath his studied gaze, the more her body flushed in reply—especially as she glimpsed how his own cheeks stained with pleasure whenever their eyes met.

He’d wanted her in the white dress for the portrait, and she’d brought it to change into after work. But an unexpected downpour had begun during her drive to his house, so she’d run up his front steps quickly, sheltering the dress against her chest. Her sandals had slapped puddles along his walkway, splattering water onto her bare calves. By the time Max opened his front door, dark rivulets of water trickled down her legs, and her hair was thoroughly doused.

Max ushered her inside, taking the dress from her, as he led her into his kitchen with a silent smile. She was confused by his reaction until he softly assessed, "Hair beautiful…wet. Good painting."

She blushed, running her fingers over the wayward strands, until he raised his hand to stop her. "No…like this."

"You sure?" she asked uncertainly and he nodded, wiping his thumb across her damp cheek. Then, he surprised her by taking a hand towel, and leaning low on his cane to dry her damp legs. She protested that she could do it herself, but he only smiled, as he stood again. Slowly, he kissed her on the mouth, licking at droplets of rain that still tickled her upper lip.

And something was markedly different in that kiss. It was imbued with an expectation, an unrestrained heat. The warmth of it seared her, as their lips brushed together and it deepened for a moment. Whatever new mystery had begun between them, her lips burned as he slowly pulled back.

"Hey," he whispered, as if seeing her for the first time all night. Only then did she realize he’d barely spoken since her arrival. Yet they’d been communicating ever since.

She reached her damp fingertips to his cheek and touched his face. It was something she loved to do, could hardly refrain from doing anymore. "You’re in a good mood," she observed softly, tracing his most jagged scar, and his eyes flared. She recognized the same energy from their kiss, flashing like the flecks of gold and amber in his eyes.

"Happy," he agreed, slipping a hand around her waist, guiding her into his living room. "Weekend."

Liz gazed up at him, as they moved slowly together toward his sofa. It amazed her how easily she understood him now; how his most fractured sentences seemed lengthy and detailed. Happy weekend. In Max’s lexicon that meant he was happy that the weekend had arrived, bestowing upon them almost three days to share without interruption.

He loved their weekends together, seemed to thrive on them, and she adored bathing him in her loving attention then. There was no gallery, no other artists clamoring for her time. Well, unless you counted Michael’s Sunday morning visits, but that fell within the realm of family and best friends, not needy clients.

"Me, too," she agreed, as he slowly lowered himself onto the sofa, gazing up at her expectantly. "Don’t you want me to change?" she asked, as he laid the dress beside them on the sofa.

He shook his head. "Not yet," he answered huskily. "Explain portrait."

"Explain?" she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion as she dropped carefully beside him on the couch. He seemed suddenly shy, as he clasped his cane between his fingers, rolling it within his palm.

He trained his eyes on his hands, averting his face from her, as he whispered, "Explain…the dress."

"I think I know why you want me in this dress, Max," she teased girlishly, leaning against him. "I think I know exactly why."

"Think about it…always," he offered softly, still toying with the cane.

"Think about what, Max?" she pressed, although she already knew his answer. Knew what he wanted, what he was implying.

"Not just it…you," he sighed, glancing at her with undisguised longing. "Always think…you."

And she’d been sure he was going to confess how he ached to make love to her, whisper the words in her ear. Ask her finally. Yet he’d not, had only struggled slowly to his feet without another word, and walked toward his studio.

For a moment, she’d felt the familiar ache of frustration, had wanted to cry out. To ask if he didn’t feel the things she did, until he’d paused, glancing back at her with one of his warm smiles. The kind when his dimples flashed suddenly, and his entire face lit with radiant joy.

"Love you," he offered. "So much, Liz."

"I love you, too, Max," she’d answered gently, her frustration dissolving in the light of that smile. One she imagined had appeared far too infrequently for so many years.

And she’d been lying on his sofa ever since, puzzling over the dress, over what he’d said about it. Had he really meant what she’d imagined?

As she listened to the pattering of rain on the roof, her thoughts floated to the dreams, to Max on the beach, to the field of flowers. To the meaning of the white dress between them both.

What it still meant between them even now, because they’d not yet given their bodies to one another, not in the two months since they’d come back together. They’d been too careful in their explorations, their touches. Too delicate in the balance of love that had blossomed between them like a crocus after winter snows.

Liz loved him more now than ever before, but she’d also realized they should move slowly in their physical relationship--especially with what she’d learned about his handicap. How sometimes his knee plagued him for days, requiring only rest, as he lay with it propped on pillows. The way his jaw thrummed with such intense pain, he couldn’t even speak at times. And she’d seen how he visibly blanched when he stumbled with the cane, though he always fought to hide the pain from her.

No, she’d become far too familiar with Max’s silent pain cues--the ones he seemed to think he hid so well—to rush anything physical between them. Their first time making love should be gentle and careful. It had to be absolutely right, because she refused to make him feel exposed or vulnerable about his body.

Especially not when it was still so utterly beautiful.

She knew that much because she’d glimpsed him at odd moments without his shirt, only in jeans or boxers after they’d spent the night in one another’s arms. She’d felt his body against hers, when they’d exchanged little more than chaste kisses--and he’d opened her shirt, trailing his lips over her chest in a path of shimmering silver. When he’d drawn her nipple inside his mouth, laving it until his energy shot unexpectedly across her chest like a dazzling meteor shower.

But she’d seen nothing more. Not yet. Though she already knew that he was exquisitely beautiful. Loving him had always told her that.

She jumped when he asked, "What thinking?" He’d stopped painting and stood wiping a brush on a cloth, watching her. Like Michael, he tended to pull his long hair away from his eyes while he painted, and loose tendrils fell along his cheek.

"Wh…what?" she stammered, as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. She felt suddenly exposed, as if he’d known her thoughts, especially the way his eyes widened a bit at her question.

"Liz," he laughed, dropping the brush on his worktable. "Bad liar. Remember?" he teased, slowly ambling toward her. Without his cane.

She bolted upright, ready to comment on his unaided steps-- yet something silenced her. Perhaps that she wasn’t sure he even realized he did it, as he took slow and plodding strides her way, smiling seductively.

"Then I won’t lie," she answered boldly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. The sundress fell open suggestively, disheveled from her position on the sofa. She knew it revealed the rise of her breasts, perhaps more. But she didn’t reach to adjust it. Instead, she never allowed her gaze to waver from his face.

"I was thinking how much I want you," she answered, her voice thick and husky. "That all I want is for you to make love to me." He stood over her, gazing down into her eyes. "It’s what I’ve wanted all these months," she finished, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

"That’s why…" he paused a moment, and Liz saw him wince momentarily in pain, then he continued. "I wanted…white dress," he said, reaching to touch the cotton material where it fell along her shoulder. "Tonight."

"Really?" Liz asked, aware that her heart began racing wildly.

"Why I had…to paint you," he nodded, stepping even closer. She reached a hand and caressed his waist, slipping her fingers beneath the edge of his t-shirt, so that she stroked his flat abdomen. "Tonight," he answered finally in a thick voice. "Painting like…making love. Speaking. Breathing." It was almost what he’d said that night months ago, only now he listed making love as the first comparison.

She lifted his shirt, until she glimpsed the smooth bare warmth of his stomach, and leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss there. It was something she’d wanted to do since high school, since she’d first glimpsed his lovely body. It had changed since then, certainly. Yet it remained surprisingly muscled and defined, despite his handicap, despite the years of imprisonment.

A soft sound escaped his lips, as she continued slowly kissing his abdomen, pushing the waistband on his jeans lower, so that her mouth could graze the skin beneath. He plunged his hands through her hair, kneading his fingers in the length of it with a quiet cry.

"Liz," he begged softly, as she slipped a hand along his hip. She knew she was taking the lead, that it would change in a moment when they entered the bedroom. But right now, she wanted him to feel all her restrained desire for him, wanted him to know how she saw him. Had always seen him.

Suddenly a river opened beneath them, and they tumbled headlong together, spiraling into the rushing sound of light and images, as Max knelt slowly in front of her. She nearly stopped him, almost protested that he should be careful with his knee, but she didn’t dare. The flashes intensified, the rushing sound wrapping around them like a lover’s arms, and she saw everything inside his heart.

His fears, his vulnerability about the scars and disfigurement, his craving for her and the way it never ended. And she saw that he’d taken her like this on thousands of occasions, more times than he could count, always making love to her as his betrothed in white. He as her prince, she the bride of his heart.

Tears began streaking her face and she couldn’t stop them, could only murmur his name softly against his scarred cheek. "Max," she begged, twining her fingers through his long hair, as he eased onto the sofa with her. "Max," she moaned again, moving aside so he fit easily in her arms. She slid her palms beneath his shirt again, easing it upward so that her hands moved against his fiery skin.

"Liz," he cried, tugging the shirt over his head. "Love…my love," he murmured, falling into her arms again. His hair spilled loosely across his shoulders, and she couldn’t stop touching it, trailing her fingers through the silken strands. Just as his own fingers kept caressing her body, outlining every curve with such desperate need, as he pulled at the material of her dress.

She glimpsed his longing in the flashes, that he needed her body joined with his. Not clad in folds of material, not separated by his jeans. He had to have her as his own.

"Liz," he finally managed. "Bedroom…not…sofa."

"No, not sofa," she repeated, mirroring his pattern of speech, as they broke their desperate kisses and stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment, drawing in shaky breaths.

"Liz, changes…everything," he offered, pressing a tender kiss against her temple. "You know that. Never same."

"I want those changes, Max," she answered, clutching his shoulders. "I can’t wait anymore. I need all of you now."

"Me too," he nodded softly, scooping her hands into his. He pressed gentle kisses into her palms, gazing into them for a thoughtful moment. Then their eyes met in the shimmering candlelight, as he whispered, "I need all of us, Liz."

*****

Sunlight splashed across Max’s bed, warming their bare bodies in the morning’s first golden rays. As Liz woke to the feel of Max’s hand nestled securely against her abdomen, she smiled. Yet she didn’t dare open her eyes, or even move, lest she wake him.

They were lovers now, and there’d be no going back. Their bodies had solidified what had always existed between their souls. They were one.

He’d been right in a way—making love had changed things between them forever. Now she would always know the feel of him, moving deep within her own body. Would always know the depth of their connection, what it was to lose herself in his golden shimmering light.

But one thing could never have changed, not from one night of making love, not from a thousand. Her love for him remained as constant as the pounding of her own heart, as certain as the twin moons of Antar.

Max snored softly against her cheek, a sweet, melodic sound that she’d come to treasure in the past two months. Without even opening her eyes, she sensed the peace surrounding his soul; that he rested more easily than he had in years. Since high school even. And perhaps that was how one marked the passage from beloved to lover. Maybe it was in the way one trusted just like this, how one’s heart beat a little more surely, even in dreams.

Liz couldn’t be sure. Yet, as they lay together in his bed, she had all she’d ever wanted; her soul mate lying flush against her, his warm body draped with her own.

Slowly, she allowed her eyes to flutter open, and found Max’s long hair tangled across his face. She studied him freely, blinking as the sunlight spilled across his dark hair, silvering strands of gray against his pillow.

And something uncanny drew her attention to the scars along his face.

For a moment, she swore the dappled sunlight played a trick on her, but then she dismissed it, deciding the strands of hair were simply obscuring his features. But finally, she lifted a tentative hand, and stroked dark tresses away from his cheek, because she needed to see his scars more clearly.

She drew in a sharp breath at the sight of his face, her eyes growing wide with wonder. Instantly, Max stirred beside her, and she allowed her hand to drop away. He opened his eyes, smiling at her sleepily.

She stroked his face with her fingertips, outlining the familiar scars, the deep scored lines along each cheek. And they even felt different beneath her touch.

Max stretched languidly, raising his arms above his head, so that the sheet draped low around his hips. Liz’s gaze fell on the familiar scar that shot like a dagger across his heart, amazed that it, too, had faded overnight.

Liz placed her palm over his heart, feeling the thick scar beneath her hand. "Max," she managed, swallowing hard. "I love you." For some reason, she wanted him to know that first, to hear the words pass her lips. But her voice betrayed her, wavering with emotion, and he glanced at her in surprise.

"Love you, too," he answered softly, but his dark eyebrows drew together in confusion. "What’s…wrong?"

Liz brushed her hair over her shoulder, sitting up in bed to look at him. The new angle afforded her an incredible view of his transformed face, of just how different that rugged terrain appeared after only a ten-hour span.

She gathered his hand within her own, threading their fingers together before speaking. "Max, something happened to you," she explained gently. "When we made love."

His demeanor changed instantly, his features relaxing. "No kidding," he laughed, caressing her shoulder slowly with his hand. "Was amazing."

"No, I mean something really happened, Max," she pressed, feeling tears well in her eyes. "To your face."

"My face?" he asked, reaching to rub his jaw. "Don’t understand."

"Max, the scars are…they’re," she stammered, and the tears spilled down her cheek before she whispered hoarsely, "Lighter. A lot lighter…this morning."

The marks had always been a harsh pink, unhealed and angry against his golden skin. In the past two months, Liz had longed to suggest the healing stones, to gather everyone and attempt to heal him. Yet something had always stopped her, prevented her from making that suggestion.

She’d held back because she’d glimpsed things in their flashes while kissing, things she knew he’d never meant for her to see.

Max ran his hand over his face, surprisingly calm, then finally rolled onto his back and just stared at the ceiling. Countless emotions shifted across his features, and Liz felt excluded from them all. He was back on Antar, back in prison. Millions of miles from their bed, her arms.

"Max, talk to me," she urged, wiping at the tears with the back of her hand. "What are you thinking?" She’d expected him to rejoice, to be happy, not melancholy and withdrawn like this.

For a long moment he was silent, until finally he sighed heavily. "Wondering why I ever left with Tess."

The room seemed to spin at his words, as a bit of magic faded quickly away. "You don’t…understand," he finally continued, after a long moment of studying her. "Do you?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head. Why would he mention Tess now, draw her into their bed at the precise moment when his healing had begun?

"You healed me," he answered simply. "I felt it, Liz. Last night."

His speech had changed, was less broken and more coherent. But Liz didn’t focus on that; instead she trained her gaze on her lover, on the golden eyes that never left her own face. "When you…touched," he hesitated a moment, rubbing his jaw with a frustrated sigh. "My face."

She knew the precise moment he referred to, the one when the change had happened during their lovemaking. His eyes had told her everything then-- at the height of it, when she’d cupped his beautiful face within her palms, showering kisses across the brutal scars. Something had happened beneath her lips, something mystical--and then silver had shot across his skin, like the distant lightning that kept illuminating his room. His mouth had opened, a soft cry escaping, and he’d reached to touch his own face in wonder.

"I know you did," Liz agreed, cupping his face within her palm even now. "Silver moved across your scars then, Max. I saw it."

"Like handprint," he whispered, eyes widening. "On you."

"Just like it, only," she paused, thinking how to describe it. "It was like an electrical storm."

"Liz, not healed before." The statement was obvious, and left her uncertain of his meaning.

"I know, sweetheart," she finally affirmed, nodding her head, as she cuddled close against him in the bed. Yet Tess’s name still seemed to echo within the room, haunting the moment even now.

"Because of Tess," he said simply.

"What?" she nearly cried. In her dreams, he’d explained about Khivar, that he’d placed blocks to the healing. In their flashes, she’d seen how Max’s followers had tried to heal him after his release from prison, but without success.

"Tess was there…night," he shook his head, and now his eyes filled with tears. And Liz understood. Something absolutely critical was happening between them, some important facet of his healing. His sentences were becoming fractured again because he was delving into a hidden place, something he’d never exposed to light before.

Magic fell over the room again, like a shimmering hush of expectation.

"Tess was there when, Max?" Liz encouraged, stroking his hair soothingly. "Tell me."

"Khivar mindraped me," he finished thickly. "Tess there and…hurt me."

"Tess hurt you?" Liz repeated hoarsely, feeling fury well within her core. "How?"

Max shook his head firmly, and Liz felt his hands tighten painfully around her waist. He seemed utterly unaware that his once gentle hold on her had become like a vise. "My mind. She hurt my mind."

Max grew silent, staring at Liz as if she held the balm that would heal his very soul. As if she would divine his meaning without the need for words. She hurt my mind. What was he telling her? Liz felt desperate, as she contemplated the cryptic words.

"During the mindrape?" Liz finally asked, chewing her lip in frustration. "She hurt your mind, then?"

"She blocked…healing. Permanently. She joined power…with Khivar, placed blocks…my mind. No healing."

"Oh, God," Liz whispered, as the horrible truth of what he meant became clear. Max only stared at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable. "God, I’m so sorry, Max."

Tess and Khivar had joined their power to place healing blocks within his mind, to make sure that no one could ever repair the damage done to Max that night. That was why the elders had been unsuccessful back on Antar, why Liz had instinctively known they shouldn’t try the healing stones.

"Only you, Liz," he finally murmured, burying his face against the top of her head. "Your love. Only you…could heal."

"Did Tess tell you that?" Liz asked. "That without me, you’d never be healed?"

"Yes." He said nothing more, yet Liz knew that ghosts stood between them. More, Max, she urged him silently. Tell me everything.

Yet he remained quiet, cuddling her tight against his chest, his breathing uneven and anxious. Finally, when Liz almost begged him to finish, he admitted softly, "Tess said…you never love me…like this. No healing without your love."

Liz closed her eyes, as a quiet sob escaped her lips at his confession. Tess had taunted him, told him that he’d lost the love of his soul mate forever that night, because his face had been ruined. And yet she’d made sure he knew that only one avenue remained for his healing—the love of that very same soul mate. Tess had meant it as a cruel joke, had been certain that he’d never find his way back to Liz. She’d convinced Max that even if he did, Liz couldn’t love him, not with his face and body so badly broken.

Liz continued to cry, pressing tender kisses along every scar. "She was so wrong, Max. You won, don’t you see?" She smiled, feeling radiant laughter well from within. "We won, Max. We defeated your enemies once and for all."

"She stole…too much. Ten years…with you."

"We can’t think about that, Max," Liz reassured him, shaking her head firmly. "Not now. Not after you’ve come home to me at last."

"She stole memories, things…" he sighed in frustration, then finally looked steadfastly into Liz’s eyes. "Belonged to us. Gone. Years gone. Khivar stole too much."

"Like what?" Liz asked and Max clutched her tightly. "What kind of memories?" She felt her heart’s pace quicken, dreading his answer. Did he not remember their first kiss? Healing her?

"Like prom."

"Prom?" Liz nearly choked the word out. "What?"

"I remember going with you, but…not leaving. Not taking you home. No kiss."

"Oh, God, Max," Liz whispered, sitting up in bed. With that one statement, he’d just explained so much about his experiences on Antar. He’d spent years riddling over their prom date, over why he had no memory of taking her home—when Liz knew the painful truth of what had happened the night of that dance. She wondered how many other moments fell apart in his hands like that one, shattered into nonsensical pieces that would hurt so much less if only he understood them.

"Max, prom was a disaster. If you don’t remember that, then all the better."

"How is that…possible?" he asked, knitting his brows together. "I loved you. Wanted so much that night."

Liz nodded, feeling tears burn her eyes anew. "I know you did," she whispered. "I know."

"How remember?" he finally asked. "How will I know what…lost? So much is confusing."

Liz thought a long moment, then gazed into his eyes intently. "Because I remember for you, Max." she answered, understanding that she held the key to the unanswered questions that plagued him. "It’s the true way my love will heal you. All those memories, everything you’ve forgotten. They’re still locked inside of you, and I see them in the flashes. And you’ll start seeing them, too. Things from Antar, from our past together, your childhood. You’ll find them all again each time we make love."

Max’s golden eyes grew wide and luminous. "You… are right," he finally agreed huskily, drawing her hand against his cheek, as he sat up in bed.

"You will remember, Max," she whispered fiercely. "Let that be my gift to you. My gift of love."

He drew her hand against his mouth, and kissed each finger tenderly. "Your love…is already… gift."

Liz threaded her arms around his neck, and drew her lips within a breath of his own. "Max Evans, no one can ever separate us again," she proclaimed, feeling his hands close around her waist. Heat exploded within her core, as slowly he lowered her onto her back. "No one can take this love from you. From us," she finished as he followed her down into the mattress. "You know why, Max?" she asked breathlessly, as she felt the warmth of him between her legs.

Max interrupted her, finishing the sentence as he kissed her, "Because soul mates… love forever," he whispered fiercely.

She cupped his face within her palms, drawing his mouth near for another kiss, and Liz glimpsed silver shimmer across his scars.

And then she swore they grew just a little bit lighter before her very eyes.