Episode Seven We Should Talk

N adira

It's one of those mornings where I wake disoriented and it takes a moment to remember where I am. When I still can't figure things out, my eyes pop open.

I'm in a primitive circular hut made of vertical limbs tied together with what looks like twine, or maybe it's vines. Shards of light beam through in a hundred places because of the way the structure is constructed. The roof looks to be made of mud mixed with hay.

There's a heavy arm around my waist. The events from earlier today come flooding back: my husband's clever decision about how to get rid of me to make room for the next poor girl he's chosen to marry, Armstrong, the brutal beating, the… monkey who brought me here.

I was certain I was dying. Then the ape… no, the monk, said he could heal me. How much of that is true and how much is a hallucination?

I imagine the heavy arm belongs to the monk, Azael. What's that old expression? Out of the frying pan and into the fire? From one forced marriage to a forced mating. It's a terrible time to be a woman.

I take a deep breath and realize the broken rib—or ribs—I was sure I'd received when Armstrong kicked the shit out of me doesn't hurt. A scoff escapes me when I think of the promise this primitive monster made. I must have been desperate when I let him stick his cock in me because of his promise to heal me. More bullshit spouted from the mouths of men.

Maybe he's just a primitive man in a loincloth. I was pretty out of it from the agony of that beating. Maybe I'm remembering it wrong.

When I turn to face him, it's clear the male lying next to me, his arm protectively slung around my waist, is no man. His browridge is thicker than a human's and his lips are thinner. His body and cheeks are furry.

Maybe I can sneak out of this hut and run. I'm just about to roll away from him and hit the ground running when it strikes me I'm a stranger here. Just where do I think I'm going? If the stories about these monsters were true, there are probably more mutants out there. Maybe different kinds—even more terrifying than the one I'm supposedly mated to.

Did I really let him bite me? Ugh. I can't control my shiver.

If I remember correctly, this male pounded the shit out of Armstrong. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but did Azael tell me he killed him? If he did, the hover is out there in a clearing somewhere.

I release a long, dejected breath through pursed lips. Even if I sneak out of this hut and find the hover, I wouldn't have the first idea of how to fly the thing. Women aren't allowed to learn things like that.

For the swiftest moment, I imagine the senator might get a pang of remorse about banishing me Down Below. Perhaps he'll send someone to rescue me. Maybe Armstrong hit my head harder than I remember, because that's the most deluded thought I've ever had.

Azael's eyes open and his gaze arrows straight to me. He has the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen. Maybe they're so striking because they're looking out at me from under his thick brows.

"You're awake," he says with a smile as he grazes his fingers along the channel of my spine.

Leaning toward me, he inspects my face, then gently grips my chin and moves my head back and forth to see me better.

"The Energy Transfer worked. At least you're healed on the outside."

"Really?"

He strokes the pad of his finger across my lips in two places as he says, "Your lip was split here and here. The cuts are gone. And your eye was so badly bruised the lid was almost shut. Your right arm was broken. The wrap is gone, so it too must be mended. Go ahead. Feel."

I don't need to touch it, but I do. Now that he mentions it, I remember both Armstrong's heavy boot breaking my arm and both his merciless punch and the painful swelling that obstructed my eyesight. When I lift my right arm and press against it, there's not even any tenderness. Even my questing fingertips find no swelling or soreness anywhere on my face.

"We'll get the medic up here in a moment. He'll examine you to ensure your internal injuries are healed. First, mayhap we should talk."

We should talk. At no time in my life have those three words been directed at me, but somehow I can't imagine they will precede anything good.