Episode Thirty-Three She Needs Something Else

E ldar

I'm a strong male who loves another strong male. There were a lot of reasons to resent Lylah, and even more reasons not to like her. She was so… weak. But she isn't now.

Sure, she had a bad moment back there. I shrug, because shit, I was having my own bad moment. But look at her now.

She wouldn't even let me break the frame—wanted to do it herself.

A shard of glass pierced her finger when she smashed it, and she didn't even make a noise. She just wiped it on the chair cushion, not wanting to get blood on the certificate.

It's fascinating that she wants to take the symbol of her slavery and turn it into something empowering. How could I not admire her for that?

She rolls the paper into a tight tube and heads toward the stairs.

"Need anything else?" I ask. "As long as we're here, maybe you want some of your clothes?"

"Human women aren't allowed to wear clothes except when we're given see-through gowns to go meet the males we've been sold to. Or when we're allowed to wear our husband's clothes to go get them food from the fucking dining room."

Perhaps it's the first time that word has burst from her lips because she looks genuinely shocked. Then she slashes me a little smile, slaps my shoulder with no more force than a child, and says, "You're a terrible influence on me."

"Glad I could be of service." I bow.

Then she laughs, a genuine laugh, and slaps me playfully again.

When we're back down the stairs, she throws her arms open, the rolled paper in one hand, and twirls in the fading sun as she squeals in happiness.

Fuck, Zoron was right when he named her Beauty. Now that I've put aside my resentment, I can truly see her. She's gorgeous.

She slips the thin paper tube into Zoron's saddlebag, and then the four of us discuss where to spend the night.

None of us want to stay here, especially the three of us who spent too many nights here as it is.

"It doesn't make sense, though," Hazlan says, "to camp in the nearby woods. If there are human males around, we'll be sitting ducks there. At least here we can find shelter and make it so they can only attack from one direction—the door."

"Oh," Lylah says. "I need to go back upstairs."

As she heads for the door, I step forward, shaking my head. "I know we were just up there, but I don't want you going alone."

I don't know where that sentiment came from, but I just don't want her in that apartment alone with her thoughts.

"Oh? Okay."

She barges up the steps and into the apartment, a female on a mission. I, on the other hand, feel dread rising as I take each step.

"There's a gun here. It sounds like we'll need it."

With that, she strides into the bedroom without skipping a beat.

I freeze, eyes wide. My feet refuse to follow my mind's directions, which is to be the first to barge through the bedroom door. For a moment, I can't even order myself to follow her.

Finally, I trail behind to find her hand between the two mattresses as she reaches in to find the gun.

"You knew where a gun was and never killed him?" I shouldn't have said that. It just blurted out. I don't want her to feel stupid or shameful.

"I contemplated it a million times. It was just… I don't even like killing spiders. I… once I was so mad at him, I thought I was ready to kill him."

She looks down, a bashful gesture that reminds me how pretty and vulnerable she is.

"I thought I'd start small, so when he ordered me to bring him some tea, I spit in it."

She glances at me through lowered lashes. I guess it's to see how scandalized I am that she spit in the motherfucker's tea.

"And?" I coax.

"Well, it made me feel terrible. It was at that moment I realized I couldn't kill him."

Gods. Has a person this sweet ever before walked the Earth?

"Alright, let's get the gun and go," I say, somehow feeling my heart open to her bit by bit as I realize what a gift she is.

"My arm's not long enough. Can you do it while I go to the bathroom?"

Wham! I somehow manage to nod before my mind flies to my internal hell so fast I'm powerless to stop it.

I find the presence of mind to step to the door, quietly close it, and slide to the floor with my back to it. She won't be able to barge back in. I need time alone.

First, I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memories bombarding me. It's a useless gesture. It's just me and my memories. Fuck.

A moment ago, when I was reading that document to her, I managed to busy myself with caring for her, crooning and petting and worrying about her emotions. Now, I have nothing to distract myself from the pictures whirling in my head.