9. Wrenlee

9

WRENLEE

S aylor doesn't say anything at breakfast, but she does keep casting questioning glances in my direction. That isn't odd in and of itself, but is it? Does she know? Suspect? I can barely pay attention to the flow of conversation happening around the table. The back of my neck itches and every time Saylor glances in my direction, that sensation grows.

"I mean who wears something like that?" Emery asks, rolling her eyes and waving a dismissive hand.

The others nod and murmur in agreement of shock and dismay. I don't know who she's complaining about now and honestly, I don't care. I never have, but it was all part of the stupid game we play. This game is a holdover from the ship and even then, it was pointless, but it was what was expected of us. Today, though, my patience is running thin. These stupid social games and pretentious status games are the things that are barring me from being with Sek'su.

"Wren dear, don't you agree?" Emery asks, affecting a long drawl on her words.

I stare at her for a long moment. Long enough that everyone at the table becomes uncomfortable enough to shift or move their utensils around. They dart their eyes back and forth as they look at each other, looking for some hint of how they should act.

Not one of you has an original thought and you're all so terrified of saying or doing the wrong thing that you can't speak without permission.

As if there is any particular right thing to do with any of this. We are mock-ups. Paper dolls that go out on display for the amusement of the masses. Objects to be admired, ignored, or scorned as each person might deign.

"Who?" I ask, speaking only when I see she is squirming.

I give her my most brilliant, carefully practiced smile. Arch one delicately plucked eyebrow and lean in the exact right amount. The tension at the table is suddenly even thicker. Everyone is watching the two of us as if we're in some life-or-death match. I suppose, socially at least, we are. These are, after all, the moments that make or break you in society.

"You know, that Council Member, Jolie," Emery says. She puts on a cool front but her lips tremble and there are tiny beads of nervous sweat forming on her brow. "She wore, what would you call it Iris, a moo-moo?"

"Uh, sure," Iris says, her cheeks flushing soft pink and refusing to lift her eyes to look directly at either of us.

"A… moo-moo?" I question.

"Well, you know, like one," Emery says, waving her hand dismissively.

"Oh," I say, pitching my tone toward boredom. "Well… was it, or wasn't it? Or don't you know?"

Emery's face flushes red as she furrows her brow, and her eyes widen. Her lips purse and she balls her hand on the table into a fist. I meet her wide-eyed glare with a tiny, knowing smile. Point, set, match, bitch.

"It was," she says, gritting her teeth.

"I see," I say, tapping my chin with one finger thoughtfully. "Well, I think moo-moos might be making a comeback this season. They are, after all, very comfortable. Free-flowing, non-restrictive, and there is always the idea of," I smile, "easy access if you know what I mean."

Emery's face could not possibly get any redder than it is. She all but splutters as she rapidly blinks, then in a huff she grabs her dishes and stands.

"Of course," she says, not looking at me or anyone for that matter. "What was I thinking? Well, I have to get to my duties. You all know how it is."

She rushes off as a soft round of titters and snickers rise from the girls who remain. They look at each other, for reassurance, I'm sure, then at me. I don't give any hint of reaction. It would not be appropriate. Besides, my attention is drawn across the room to him. Sek'su enters beside another Cavern Zmaj, who is even larger and has a hulking appearance. I see the two of them together quite often, but I don't know him.

As soon as I see him, my sore, aching pussy throbs with desire as if it wasn't just fucked for all it's worth last night. Our eyes meet across the room. He doesn't speak, blink, or say a thing, but I don't miss the way his pants suddenly tent.

Out of the corner of my eye, Saylor looks too, and the corners of her mouth twitch. She is nothing if not perceptive. I quickly turn and look in another direction, but the tightening of her mouth and the narrowing of her eyes tells me she knows. Damn it. No one can know this. What am I thinking even looking at him like this? Here of all places? Damn me for a fool.

"Speaking of chores," Saylor says, darting her eyes from me to the others.

"Right," I say, "you know how it is. Duty calls."

The other girls give their goodbyes, and we part ways. All except Saylor who follows me because we have the same duty station today. Of course, we do. How could it be otherwise? The universe is conspiring against me.

A lifetime spent under the scrutiny of the spotlight has prepared me for pretty much any situation, including ones like these. Where I know I'm being watched, and judged, and I know I've done something that I really shouldn't have. Situations like this are how I earned the title of Ice Queen. I never let them see me sweat.

Saylor walks at my side, silent. Looking around us as if she too doesn't have a care in the world but I sense her tension. We've been friends for a long time. She's been my closest, besides Ziva, since we were kids. Ziva and I were first because we are a couple of years older than Saylor, but those years made all the difference in our trust and the closeness of our relationship.

Without Ziva though, Saylor has been, by default if nothing else, my best friend. I know I could trust her with this. But still, I doubt it. Doubt her, doubt me, doubt what I'm doing. If I tell her everything, will she think less of me? Why does that bother me so much?

I feel everyone's eyes on me as we leave the dining hall. The tunnels are busy too, lots of people looking, whispering, looking at the two of us. The looks on their faces of surprise are interspersed with ones of shock, anger, or some other kind of judgment.

This is my life. An object to be judged, not a person.

I don't know why this bothers me today. Well, I do. Because the eyes on us are the shadowy ‘rumor mill' that I know would go crazy if they found out I had slept with a Zmaj. It's not as if it's not the latest en-vogue thing to do. Most of the ruling Council have and dozens of other women have mated with them too.

The only reason it's bad and would be a problem is because we, the elite, decided it was after the crash. Namely, me. Since then, we've built a cage and locked ourselves inside of it. Which is the same as my entire life has been. My cage may be gilded, but it is a cage, nonetheless.

"You going to talk?" Saylor asks in a whisper.

"About?" I ask, feigning innocence.

"What the hell that was back there."

She has her smile fixed, avoiding eye contact with the masses, but looking around as if she sees them. It's all very well practiced. A game we both know too well. Make them feel noticed, no matter what you feel inside yourself.

"Nothing," I say through tightly pursed lips. "Nothing at all."

"You left last night."

"I did?"

A group of eight people fills the hall ahead and are walking in our direction. A woman in the lead sees me and gasps, openly pointing and saying my name loudly in surprise. She rushes ahead of her friends, coming to a stop in front of me.

"Oh, Wren, oh, I can't believe it, you're even more beautiful in person! I'm so glad you survived the crash. Why did you dump Jaimie? He was so dreamy. Was the sex no good? Was it drugs? What did he do?"

I carefully arch an eyebrow, tilt my hip to an exact degree, and make a small dismissive motion with my hand.

"You know a girl never kisses and tells," I murmur.

She gasps, her eyes widening with surprise as if she only now realizes where she is or who she's talking to.

"Uh, oh, go—I'm—oh crap," she stumbles over a rush of words but doesn't speak an entire thought.

I place my hand lightly on her cheek, cupping so only my fingertips touch her skin. She's cool and sweaty, but I ignore the discomfort that rises.

"Don't worry about it," I say then on impulse I lean in close enough to whisper in her ear.

"He wasn't very… you know… down there."

She titters. I don't know that I've ever heard anyone do that in a natural, not practiced way. Paisley does it but it's an affectation that I watched her practice for months to get it just right. Saylor barely suppresses her own snorting laugh making a strangled sound as she forces herself not to give in to it.

"Oh, you are… you're my favorite. I love you!"

She exclaims the last so loud it echoes from the stone walls. The crowd she ran ahead of stopped a little further down the hall, waiting and watching, but the jealousy is clear on their faces and in their attitudes. I can't tell if the jealousy is because their friend was brave enough to talk to me or of me in general. In my experience, it's almost always a mixed bag.

"Thank you," I say, carefully demure.

She has turned a brilliant shade of crimson that I passingly think would make a good color for lipstick. If we had such luxuries any longer. I miss makeup. Thankfully I've good enough genetics, it's not as big a deal as it is for some of the girls. Valentina has an unfortunate complexion that she struggles with all the time without any of the chemicals we used to use to make ourselves perfect.

"Me, uhm, ye—tha—oh—" she stutters nothings again.

"I need to get to my daily chores, I'm sure you need to do the same," I say, helping to guide her along and most importantly, away.

"Yes!" she yelps more than says as she jumps to one side. "Oh. Sorry. I… I just… oh…"

"It's fine," I say, smiling. "What's your name dear?"

"Uh… Beth … uhm…" she says it as if she's not sure that is her name or not, but I only smile bigger.

"Beth, you be well, okay?"

"Oh, yes, of course," she says shaking her head as she raises her hands and drops them again. "You too!"

I smile as Saylor and I make our way past the staring crowd. There are three guys in the group, and I am very much aware of them staring at my ass as we leave. Good to know I haven't lost my touch. But it's not them I'm thinking about looking at my ass, it's him.

Which is a distraction I do not need. Especially with Saylor at my side. She's too sharp and too damn perceptive for my own good.

"Do I need to repeat the question?" Saylor asks, almost as if we weren't interrupted at all.

"There was a question?" I ask, feigning I forgot, but she knows damn well I didn't. She doesn't answer me with words, but the look on her face is more than enough. "I was sleepwalking."

She frowns, narrowing her eyes as her lips turn down.

"Again?" she asks. I shrug. "You should see the doctor. Last time this happened?—"

"I know," I cut her off. "Believe me, I know."

The last time this happened was because I was obsessing over Brian. A man I thought I truly loved. I thought he was the real deal. That was before I caught him in Emery's bed, which had been a big scandal back on the ship. It made all the gossip rounds and every talk vid was discussing both the affair and my reaction to it.

Before I caught them, I'd begun sleepwalking and found myself, more than once, in a public place wearing nothing but my nighties. The public was given plenty of tantalizing images of me that I'm sure were the source of many personal pleasure moments for men and boys all over the ship.

None of them cared what it did to me. How it made me feel to know I was being used like an object. They never do. After all we're not real people, are we? We aren't supposed to have feelings or concerns or care what the world thinks of us.

"Wren, please," Saylor says, grabbing my arm and forcing me to turn and look at her. "Talk to me. What is going on?"

"It's nothing," I say. "Stress, I'm sure. The usual."

I resume walking because already too many eyes are on us. Saylor sees it too and we resume moving, but she's worried. Something about her concern causes an ache in my chest. It's crazy that I have to think about why this hurts because when I figure it out, it's obvious.

She really cares. Such a rare thing in my life that someone truly cares about something real, like my own well-being, both mental and spiritual. Ziva was the only other person I can recall ever making me feel like this. Even my parents never did. I was as much an object to them as I am to the masses. A pretty doll to dress up and put on display from the time I was old enough to walk.

"Talking to someone could help," she says, speaking softly, so all the ears surrounding us won't be able to pick up on the conversation. Another trick we've all learned over our lives is how to pitch our voices so that those nearby can't make sense of your words. "It doesn't have to be me, Wren. Anyone. Please. I don't want you to… you know."

I smile and shrug.

"I'm fine," I say. "But thank you."

The look of worry on her face is still clear but she nods, letting it go for now. I don't know how long I can hide this from her but for now, I've covered myself the best I can.

We're almost to an intersection when it happens. Sek'su and another Zmaj walk across the connecting hall and the moment I see him my heart stops and a small but audible gasp slips out. He turns, as if sensing that I'm here, and his eyes instantly lock onto mine.

My heart, only a moment before stopped, not only resumes, but takes off in a gallop. Racing like a horse in the final stretch of the most important derby of its life. Running for all it's worth. My mouth is dry, but my lips tingle with the memory of his.

I am drawn to him. Pulled in his direction. A slow smile spreads over his incredibly handsome face. His scales reflect the light of the wall torches giving him an almost transfigurative appearance, as if he's an angel come down from the heavens.

"Oh," Saylor says and the moment shatters like a mirror breaking into a million pieces.

I turn from Sek'su to her, my heart racing for an entirely new reason. A cold sweat forms across my skin and I shake my head but there is no denying this to her. Not any longer. She knows and there's not a damn thing I can say or do about it.