Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Wren

A soft tickleat my temple draws me from sleep, and I open my eyes to Six pushing the strands of hair from my face. Between us, our hands are still clasped together, as when we fell asleep.

His face is stoic, unreadable, as he studies me, but the sunlight filtering in from behind frames him in a soft glowing halo.

A knock tightens my muscles, but it’s not at my bedroom door. It’s from below. Voices bleed through the floor, one of them Papa’s, and I lift my head to listen, rapping it on the underside of the bed.

“Ouch. Shit.” I rub at the ache and glance back to Six with remorse for cursing. Remaining still and quiet, I hear Papa’s mumbling through the floorboards. Talking to someone.

I twist back around to Six and place my fingers over my closed lips for him to stay quiet and still.

He nods, pulling my pillow and clasping it to his chest, while I slide out from under the bed. Padding quietly across the room, I crack the door and stare down through the bannister, to where I can see the front entrance.

Two Legion soldiers, dressed completely in black, stand at either side of Arty, one of the guards from the gate, who’s dressed casually. He’s a pudgy man, with thinning hair and tired eyes, and looks small and insignificant beside the other two, but he’s the one who does the talking, as the other soldiers lift their gazes, scanning the interior of the house. There’s a vague familiarity to one of them—a stout blond who stands stiff as a board with his chin angled high. All Legion soldiers carry themselves with a certain proud arrogance, but his is almost haughty, reminding me of the boys I run into at the market sometimes.

They like to tease me. Call me a freak. Savage. I don’t attend their schools, so to them, I’m different, and different is frowned upon here.

One asked me to accompany him to Third Street a while back, a block made up of brand new, empty homes in the Phase Three neighborhood. When I refused, he ended up butt-hurt about it and knocked me backward into one of the fruit stands behind me, spilling all of the potatoes I’d collected onto the ground. He and his friends have been cruel to me ever since.

“If you see anything, be sure to let me know right away,” Arty says, removing his worn cap and rubbing his skull. “I know you got Wren to worry about.”

At that, the blond lifts his gaze up, toward me, and I duck down, out of his view.

“Who’s Wren?” This deeper voice reaches my ears, and I concentrate on it.

I know I’ve heard it before. Oddly though, it skates down my spine like a bad kind of déjà vu. Something I might’ve heard in a dream.

“She’s his daughter,” Arty answers.

“Oh?” The pitch of intrigue in the stranger’s voice tingles my spine, and I glance back toward Six, whose feet poke out from end of the bed. “I’d no idea you had a daughter. I’d like to ask her some questions, as well.”

“I’ve never offered the information. And she’s asleep.” Papa’s stern voice tells me he’s irritated for being held up so long, and when he clears his throat, I’m certain of it. That’s the same sound he makes when I ask too many questions. “I’ll let you know if I see anything. Thank you, gentlemen.”

I peek over the balcony, keeping low so the stranger doesn’t change his mind and decide to interrogate me.

The Legion soldiers stiffen, offering a salute that Papa half-heartedly mimics, before the three men turn for the exit. The blond gives one more glance back toward the bannister, and I just catch his eyes as he leaves.

Once they’re gone, I slide across the floor to the side of the bed and lift the skirt, beneath which Six has peeled away the gauze at his palm, examining the gash.

The gash that’s healed.

Entirely way too fast.

I pull at his fingers, tugging his hand for a closer look. Only the puffy red line of a scar remains where the cut had been wide open the night before.

Setting my thumbs at either side of it, I gently push at the edges, creating a thin sliver of a channel, but it seals together again.

Odd.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, releasing his hand.

He nods emphatically and pushes forward as if he might slither out from under my bed.

I grip his shoulder, taking in the solid ball of muscle beneath my palm. “Stay in my room, okay? I’m going to bring you some breakfast, but stay here. Don’t let Papa see you yet.”

Another nod signals his understanding, so I crawl out of the hiding place and make my way toward the door. The moment my hand touches the knob, the door glides open, and Papa falls back a step.

“I’m sorry.” He drops his gaze from mine and clasps his hands in front of him. “I thought you were asleep.”

I snap my head back toward the bed, where Six has tucked his feet beneath, thank goodness, and back to Papa. “The men at the door. I heard you talking.”

“A, um … a young man has gone AWOL. One of their … someone they’ve taken into custody.”

“A prisoner?” I tip my head in an effort to guide his eyes toward mine, and when he takes another step back, I take one forward, shutting the door behind me. “Is that who they’re looking for?”

“Not a prisoner, per se.” He still keeps his gaze from mine, and I’ve come to learn this as his behavior for when he feels bad for keeping a secret from me.

So I probe harder as usual. If nothing else, it’ll prompt him to leave, so I can get Six cleaned up and fed.

“They think he breached the wall?”

He shakes his head as if it’s a ridiculous thought. “Of course not. The warning is just a precaution. In the event he had, somehow, managed to get inside.”

“He’s from that building, isn’t he? The one I asked you about with the smoke stacks?”

“Wren,” he warns, lifting his chin just enough to look at me from beneath his pinched brows. “You’re to stay here today. Do not leave this house for anything, do you understand?”

“Why?”

“This young man is quite dangerous.”

“Infected?” It’s clear he’s talking about Six, and I’m damn curious to know what he knows.

“Much worse. If you should come across him, you’re to shoot first and ask questions later.”

His warning turns my blood cold—ice cold. Aside from the small bit of self-defense he’s taught me, and the lessons with the sling, he’s never encouraged me to take a life.

Never.

“What is it that you fear about him, Papa?”

His gaze wanders everywhere except on me, as he shakes his head. “No more questions. Remember what I told you. I’ll see you at supper.”

Without another word, he makes his way downstairs and out the front door.

For a moment, I stand there, absorbing the last five minutes. Everything he’s said doesn’t make sense to me.

I continue on down into the kitchen, where the bright sun shines in through the windows. The refrigerator has been running a good two hours with daylight, so it’s safe to open it now. Every night it shuts down, but dropping the temperature inside before dusk allows the food to stay cold enough through the night. From inside, I grab an egg from the shelf, a jar of fig jam, and the jug of melon juice I made from fruit from the garden. Because we live on rations, I’ll offer mine to Six, so as not to rouse suspicion from Papa.

Closing the door, I gasp to find Six standing there, and the egg falls from my hand.

Six snatches it up before it hits the floor, and I exhale a sigh of relief when he hands it back to me.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile.

At that, his shoulders twitch as if something moves through him, and he drops his gaze, shuffling across the room toward one of the kitchen chairs, which he falls into.

Embarrassed, perhaps?

“Sit tight. I’ll get you something to eat.” From the cupboard, I nab a glass and pour him some of the melon juice, setting it in front of him. Within seconds, he sucks it down, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“More?” I ask, holding up the half full jug.

He steadies the glass as I fill it again, and this time, drinks it slower.

The stove’s electric burners glow a dark red, and I set the pan over the largest of the four, allowing the ceramic to heat, before cracking an egg into it. It sputters and fries, while I slice the bread I baked yesterday and spread the jam onto three slices—two for him, one for me.

I heat a kettle of water on another burner and set out two cups, scooping the dried coffee into a paper funnel. Szolen has a number of California buckthorn plants, and the seeds inside the berries make for a great coffee. Far better than chicory root, in my opinion. These are from last year’s harvest, and there’s still an abundance stored in the cupboards.

Once the egg is cooked, I flip it onto a plate beside the bread and attend the whistling kettle that lets me know the water has boiled. I pour the hot water over the coffee, taking in the scent, and do the same for the second cup.

Six finishes the last of the melon juice, as I set down the coffee and breakfast for him then nab the bread and coffee for myself, taking a seat across from him. With the same fascination as before, I watch him devour the food, the way he foregoes the utensils I set out for him and uses his fingers.

Blowing steam from the coffee, I hold the cup to my mouth, and slurp the hot liquid that heats my chest as it slides toward my empty stomach. Small nibbles of bread soak up the coffee, filling the hollow in my gut. I’ll have to gather extra food for Six, if he’s going to stay a while, since one slice of bread isn’t going to keep me full until supper every day. Not with a morning full of chores in between.

Six lifts the mug of coffee to his lips and sips.

The cup falls from his palms, rattling the table as it bounces off into his lap, before clanging to the floor.

“Oh, my God!” Setting my cup down, I scramble to the sink for a towel, soak it with cool water, and rush to his side.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t so much as flinch, while the scalding liquids seep into his T-shirt and across his lounge pants.

I palpate the soaked fabric with my finger and, at the sting to my skin, draw back and shake off the scorching burn.

Six doesn’t move, at all.

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

He shakes his head at first, but then, at what must be an incredulous look on my face, he nods.

After daubing away some of the coffee, I tug his elbow to follow me back up the stairs, into the bathroom. Flipping on the shower sends out a rush of cool water, and I help him lift the T-shirt that carries remnants of coffee.

He takes my cue and removes his pants, dropping them in front of me.

My eyes widen at the sight of his sex sticking out from his thighs. I’ve surely seen the male genitalia before, in the many medical and art books in Papa’s study. Except, Six is more well-endowed than any of the males in those pictures, and I have to will myself not to stare there.

Clearing my throat, I shift my gaze to the red welts across his thighs, where the coffee scalded him. Angry patches of raised skin look as if they’ve already begun to blister, and I usher him into the cool shower to wash the area.

As if completely unaffected by the pain, he sets his hand out beneath the raining spigot, collecting water in his closed palms, and splashes it against his face. Again, he collects the water, splashing it over himself. And again. He does it a fourth time, as if completely enthralled.

It’s hard to keep my focus on his burns when it doesn’t seem to bother him, and my eyes shift back to between his thighs.

I feel like a ridiculous teenage girl for ogling him this way, but I can’t help it. The sight of him, wet and naked, even with his many scars, has a strange effect on my body, and I can feel a tingle between my thighs that begs me to squeeze them together.

He’s a man-boy with a grown man’s penis, an attribute that my body finds inexplicably arousing. The veins beneath his skin draw my tongue against the back of my teeth, skimming the ridges there.

Stop.

I screw my eyes shut and double-blink, to unhinge my stare from what has monopolized my thoughts.

The physician’s daughter in me takes over once again as I scramble for a washcloth set out in a basket beneath the sink, and I hand it to him through the gap in the shower door. As I slide the door closed, he sets the cloth to his arm first, scrubbing away at the dirt and grime still clinging to his skin, and I shake my head, widening the door again.

“Start with the wound. You don’t want to get dirt in it, or it’ll get infected,” I instruct, noticing the dampness of my shirt from the errant sprays of water.

Six scrubs at the welts on his thigh, and I watch with horror as the skin turns redder, creating painful looking streaks across the wounds.

“Stop! Oh, my God, wait. You’re … not that hard.” I can’t decide which is more disturbing, the way he handled himself so roughly, or that he didn’t seem to feel it, at all.

Rubbing lavender soap over the cloth creates a foam that I gently place to his thigh, and with soft, delicate circles, hardly touching him at all, I clean the wound for him. Water saturates the rug beneath my feet and across my T-shirt, adding a thin layer of moisture to my face.

Six stands perfectly still in the shower, while I wash him, and I dare a quick glance to the right, noticing his sex has grown larger than before, curving upward toward his navel.

Don’t look, I tell myself, but when he grabs hold of the shaft mere inches from my face, I peer up at him. My fingers twitch with the curiosity of how the rigid texture would feel against them if I reached out and stroked it, as I’ve read about in some of those erotic books from the library.

I catch the irregular rise and fall of his chest with his hastened breaths, but without a word, he turns away from me, facing the wall of the shower stall, and waves of embarrassment move through me.

My eyes are drawn to his backside, to a purple bruise that sits at the level of his tailbone with bruising across each cheek. Scars mar his skin there, and when my eyes trail up his spine, the wide expanse of his back is covered in so many wounds, only a few patches of his skin remains intact. A glossy irregular blotch at his shoulder blades is puffy and stretched like a burn scar.

The marks of his torture reach deep into my chest, stirring thoughts of guilt and shame.

Rising up from my crouch, I hand him the washcloth, which he accepts over his shoulder, and close the shower door to offer him privacy, while he washes the rest of himself.

Once he finishes, I turn off the faucet for him, taking deep breaths at what has been a somewhat jarring experience. Not a single word spoken the entire time, but he doesn’t have to talk. He wears his words across his skin like braille. A story of pain that I wish I could rewrite for him, and take away the chapters that mark his suffering.

I nab a jar of aloe gel that I keep for my scratching, along with gauze from the cabinet beside the sink, and hand him a towel that he wraps around his waist, covering his lower half. With his manhood out of sight, I lift the edge of the towel just enough to daub the aloe over the wound, which has definitely begun to blister, and tape a square of gauze over it.

“Looks like second degree. Try not to pop the blister. Papa says it bathes the skin while it heals so you …” Don’t end up with a nasty scar, I don’t say, eyeing a poorly-sewn gash above his knee. “Can heal faster.”

Six runs his fingers over the dressing, and I catch the bulge sticking up from the towel, while he examines the bandaging. Ordering myself focus away, the quick shift of my eyes diverts my gaze to the silver band at his throat.

The way his skin curves over the edges, it almost looks embedded there, and my neck tics with a swallow. A keyhole at the side of the collar is an unusual shape—none of the keys I own would fit it. Wide and circular, it appears to require a tubular shaped tip, and I wouldn’t have a clue how to pick it. The protruding silver ring in the band gives away its purpose, and a spasm of anger spikes my blood at the thought that he’s been treated like a dog. An animal.

Maybe Papa can remove it for him—once I muster the courage to tell him about our new guest.

“I’ll go get you some clothes.” I make my way to Papa’s closet and gather a few items, before returning to the bathroom.

Six dresses quickly in a pair of Papa’s snug-fit pants and shirt, as I toss the soiled clothes into the washing machine, along with what little laundry that needs cleaning, so as not to waste the water.

We meet in the kitchen, and I offer him a cooler cup of coffee that he sucks down without incident. Cleaned up and dressed in normal clothes, he doesn’t quite look the same. His scars somehow seem less like the wounds of a victim.

“I’ve some chores to do before it gets too hot. If you’d like, you can come with me, but promise me you’ll stay out of sight. Don’t let anyone see you.”

He gives a nod, setting the cup down on the counter, and I gather up all of the used dishes, setting them into a sink of soapy water. Without prompting, Six immediately goes to work beside me, washing each.

Gripping his forearm makes him pause, and I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll do it.”

He twists out of my grasp and continues on, ignoring me as he sets the clean plates into the other basin for rinsing.

With a smile, I rinse and dry the dishes, placing them back in the cupboard, until all of breakfast is cleaned.

We head out toward the back of the house, to where rows of vegetables make up about a quarter acre of the yard. The gardens use reclaimed water, fed through a treadle pump, that I have to manually feed to the irrigation tubes. A job I loathe, but it’s certainly contributed to the strength in my legs. Last week, I broke the pump in my haste to finish chores, which means twice the work on my legs until Papa can fix it.

“I want to introduce you to Papa,” I say, crossing over the cracked dirt and tufts of frayed desert grass that make up our backyard. “But I have to go about it just right. He’s … not very agreeable when it comes to outsiders.”

A rattling noise reaches my ear, growing louder and louder. Before I realize the imminent danger, an object flies out from the right of me, and within a hair of a second, is snapped back. Like flicking a towel against the rock, Six cracks the head of the snake against a nearby boulder.

My heart pounds inside my throat, corking my next breath.

Dangling from Six’s fingertips is a limp Mojave rattlesnake. One of the most dangerous and venomous in the desert.

A shaky exhale seeps through my clenched teeth, when my head finally snaps out of its frozen state, realizing how close I came to the fangs poking out from the head of it. Due to the number of bites, Papa keeps a small stash of anti-venom in his exam room, but I’d probably die before I made it back to the house, since their venom has a neurotoxin that’d leave me damn near paralyzed within minutes.

“Oh, my God,” I manage to spit out, as he holds it up, examining the head of it. “I could’ve … that would’ve …”

His reaction was fast. Almost inhumanly fast. Like he’s been trained to kill them and it was only instinct guiding his actions.

On my own instinct, I rise up on tiptoes and wrap my arms around Six’s neck, noting the tremble in my muscles as I press against his chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.

The thud of the fallen snake is the only warning, before Six’s arms band around my waist, and I can hear his inhalation as he buries his face in my hair.

In the next breath, he pushes me away.

Head bowed, eyes cast away from mine, he rubs his hands across his skull, shifting on his feet, as if fighting some invisible force that I can’t see inside his mind. His eyes are tormented, for reasons I can’t begin to understand, and his muscles harden beneath his skin with the tension that strains his jaw.

He’s dangerous.

Papa’s words from before drift through my mind, and I quickly search for something to divert Six’s attention.

Lifting the dead snake at its tail, I hold it up, and Six pauses, his attention switching from me to the snake and back.

“Dinner?”

The corner of his lips raise only slightly, before he gives a nod, and whatever happened moments ago fizzles away.

* * *

A short breakfrom chores means indulging in one of my favorite pastimes.

I raise the sling over my head and swing it around, whipping it faster, and hurl the stone through the air. It smacks into a battered tin can I’ve perched in a line of four, set upon a log about one hundred feet away. “Takes a bit of practice to get the aim just right.”

Six steps forward, and I string the loop of the sling over his thumb. Gliding my hand down the fibers, I set a rock into the pouch.

He gives me an uncertain glance, and I nod.

“Remember to release the thumb loop.”

Backing away, he puts a small bit of distance between us and swings the sling at his side. Faster and faster, it spins at his hip, before he raises it up to the level of his shoulder and steps into the throw.

The tin can pings off the log in a spot-on hit.

The corner of his lips slide into a half-smile at what must be a look of sheer surprise on my face.

“Beginner’s luck,” I say, tossing him another rock.

Again, he swings the sling at his side, releasing it into the air, where it smacks into the second can.

Another spot-on hit knocks the third, and paralysis claims my muscles, as I stand in complete shock and narrow my eyes. “You’ve done this before.”

With a snorted laugh, he shakes his head.

“Bullshit.” I point to the now empty log. “What you just did takes a lot of practice.” I march toward the log and lift one of the cans from the ground, peering through a hole the rock has created. “This isn’t normal. The rocks dent them, sure. But they don’t pierce them.” Tossing it to the ground, I stare back at Six, who stands with a dumbfounded expression on his face. “What are you?”

The question slips out before I can stop it, and at the dip of his brows, I instantly regret having asked. “Wait. I’m sorry. I just mean you’re the strongest, fastest person I’ve ever met. You … killed a snake with your bare hands, you can dive into a pit of Ragers without getting eaten alive, and you just performed one hell of a physics trick. Did you work as a magician in your previous life, or something?” I set my hands at my hips and shake my head. “What else can you do?”

His cheek dimples with a devilish grin.

* * *

It’smidday when Six and I finish the chores—weeding, irrigating the plants, and hanging out the laundry. My body is coated in sweat as we enter the house, and I pour two glasses of water.

“I’m going to go wash up. Stay in the house, okay? I’ll be down soon. Don’t go outside.”

He nods in understanding, polishing off the glass of water, and fills his glass again.

“Drink as much as you like,” I say before heading up to the bathroom.

Leaving the door cracked allows me to listen for Six, and I undress quickly, nervous that he might get into something while I’m showering —particularly in Papa’s off-limits study.

A part of me questions whether, or not, I should shower with him roaming the house, but the moment the cool fluids hit my skin, all that worry melts into the comfort of the water washing away the sweat and dust.

I close my eyes, tipping my head back to saturate my hair, and can hardly contain the quiet moan that escapes me.

When I open my eyes, Six is standing outside the stall with the door open, his eyes fixed toward my bare flesh.

With a gasp, I stumble back, arms covering my breasts, and I reach for the washcloth at my side to hide my exposed sex.

“You scared me!” The wobble in my voice reflects the nervous tickle in my stomach. Yes, only hours ago, I was standing outside the shower eyeing his nakedness, but somehow, this is different.

Six reaches for the washcloth, and before I can react, he soaks it with water, leaving me standing, arms crossed over my body. He lathers the soap in the fabric and sets it to my throat, gently rubbing in small circles.

The agonizing seconds that follow, as I remain on display for him, allow my head to relax, and with a harsh gulp, I lower my hands to let him touch me.

If I stare at him long enough, his scars blur into his skin, and Six becomes the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. The blue of his eyes pulls me under, while I drown in his soft caresses, his gentle care as he washes the dirt from my body and makes me clean again.

Beneath the cloth, Six explores every dip and valley, skimming his large palm over my curves. There’s something both erotic and innocent in his movements, and I allow him this small moment of pleasure that seems to fascinate him.

He feasts his eyes on me, and when he drags the cloth over my breasts, mine shutter at the dizzy sensation as the soft cotton glides over my puckered nipples.

I’ve always had larger breasts, for as small as my frame is, ones that make me feel heavy and clumsy, but Six seems rapt by them. Perhaps it’s the rapid rise and fall of them with my hastened breaths that break his momentary trance. He studies my reaction, imparting the same attention to the other breast, before trailing the cloth over my shoulder and down my arm.

To my forearm.

Pausing his exploration, he stares down at my scar there, and the pad of his thumb drifts over the raised skin. His eyes flick to mine, brows upturned with what I surmise as concern, but I shake my head.

“I don’t remember how it happened.”

Releasing my arm, he lowers to his knees before me, just outside the shower stall. Dragging the washcloth over my belly with one hand, the other grips the back of my thigh and when he lifts my leg, spreading me open for him, the first pangs of embarrassment strike.

It’s not overtly sexual, but the sensations that rush through me have me feeling a bit drunk. Like the times I’ve sipped Papa’s liquor and that warm feeling hit my belly at the same time my head felt light.

Something like butterflies explode inside my stomach, and I have to look toward the ceiling, as he washes the inner part of my thigh with his gaze glued to my sex.

I slide my hand down to cup myself in the same manner that he held himself from me, and he glances up at me, slowly rising up to stand.

Handing me the washcloth, he seems to pick up on the fact that I’m as equally uncomfortable as when I washed him there the night before.

Still, the gesture is sweet, and I muster a smile. “Thank you, Six.”

Head bowed, he closes the shower door, and through the distorted frosted glass, I watch him exit the bathroom. Once my hair is washed and twisted up into a towel, I dress in clean clothes and enter my bedroom to find it empty.

After a peek into Papa’s room, making sure he didn’t venture inside there, I head down to the kitchen.

For the second time today, my heart catches in my throat. My muscles stiffen and paralysis settles over me.

Papa stands just inside the kitchen with a shotgun propped high, and at the business end of it, Six stands waiting for the imminent shot.