13. Making Friends

Making Friends

Bishop

Driving back to the Estate is the most awkward car ride of my life.

Thanks to Ecker's fucking game at the table, I had to storm out or risk rutting Sinclair on the diner floor and killing anyone who tried to stop me. Self control is never something I've lacked. I'm disciplined, resilient, and patient. Or I was.

Experiencing my first full rut makes me understand Ecker's and Titus's hotheadedness and impulsivity a little better. Or at least kind of understand, because something tells me the rut she invokes isn't like anything they're used to either.

I don't think any of us have experienced anything quite like her before.

I need to figure out my shit and soon. I can't keep avoiding her, and I can't be the monster she turns me into.

It certainly didn't help when ten minutes after Ecker joined me in the car, she bursts into the back seat, slamming the door behind her and smelling like hot, torrid sex. It's different from her usual scent. Dirtier.

And fuck, does it make my blood burn with jealousy and desire.

Her eyes are icy blue and full of malice, not a hint of gold or heat. Which is probably the only reason I'm able to keep it together in such close quarters.

Ecker groans, tilts his head back on the seat, and inhales deeply. He rolls his cheek onto the upholstery to look at her. She's in the farthest corner of the town car, arms and legs tightly crossed.

She meets his heavy stare. His voice is strained and coarse. "Where are your goddamn panties?" I'm not surprised he can smell the difference, but she seems to be.

Scrunching her face, she balks. "Excuse me?"

"I can smell him dripping out of you," he drawls in reply, eyes growing hooded.

She huffs, uncrossing and crossing her knees. "Yeah, well, take that up with Tiddles."

The back door swings open again. Bright light streams in, making us all squint, until a hulking figure blocks the sun.

"Speak of the devil," Ecker teases.

"Shut up." Titus grunts, unamused, falling into the closest seat.

The return drive is silent except for Ecker's attempts at jokes or random statements to instigate conversation. No one says a word back the entire time.

I'm too busy trying to tamp the desire to rip out my brother's throat because he's covered in her scent. A scent that turns my thoughts into an endless loop. Mine. Mine. Mine.

The car crawls over the Estate's long driveway at an excruciatingly slow pace. I've been breathing through my mouth for the last five minutes and am tempted to jump out of the moving vehicle.

Jump is more a figure of speech. We are moving so goddamn slowly over the gravel that I could probably cartwheel safely out of here.

I'm not the only one anxious to get out. Titus's hand has been gripping the door handle in anticipation since we entered the gates. The driver hasn't even fully put the car in park before he flings the door open and bolts out.

A lusty Ecker and irate Sinclair file out next until I'm alone, grinding my teeth and thanking God I survived. Before leaving, I snatch a styrofoam take-out container left behind on the back seat.

I exit the car, gratefully inhaling fresh air, and pop the lid. There's a small fluttering in my stomach when I see it's Sinclair's untouched chicken tenders. I don't know if the fluttering is the result of excitement or nerves. Maybe it's just the thought of her.

Clutching the food, I slowly make my way to our wing of the Estate. I'm in no rush. I know giving myself time to cool down is what I need most. By the time I reach it, the heavy thrumming in my chest is a light gallop and I'm back in control of my senses, my mind settled.

That is until I approach her bedroom and the fluttering returns tenfold. The styrofoam creaks in my hands as I stand outside her door. I swallow, and all I can think about is her eyes.

Gold but frightened in the bathroom mirror.

Broken and crying in my childhood window.

The images and accompanying shame gut me. I consider just leaving the food outside her door and walking away, but . . . gold but frightened, broken and crying . . .

My fist raps on the old wood door. My heart hangs mid-beat as I wait for her reply.

"Who is it?" she calls from the other side.

"Bishop." I'm greeted by a long stretch of silence. "May I come in?"

"No, you may not," she shouts, and my chest stings.

I try to explain, "I have—"

"You can punch a hole through this door, just like the other one, or you can leave me alone." I think I catch a wobble in her voice, a crack in her fierceness . . . broken and crying . . .

Sighing, I set the container on the floor by the door and take a few steps back so she knows I'm leaving. "I'll leave your leftovers right here," I say as soft as I can while still being loud enough for her to hear me.

A weight of disappointment settles in my chest as I walk away, but it's lifted by a small air of hope. Another time.

Another time, I will see her eyes blue, bright, and happy.

Sinclair

I don't know where all these clothes come from, but everyday, Seventeen arrives with a new outfit. She comes in the morning to get me ready for the day's unknown torment. I'm not used to it, and it chafes having someone wait on me hand and foot, but I'm not really in a position to complain. I came here with the clothes on my back and nothing more.

"Are you ever going to tell me your name?" I ask her as she deftly fastens the buttons on the back of today's dress. I've been able to figure out that she's undesignated and an indentured servant of the Echelon.

Her fingers are as light and soft as her voice. "My name is Seventeen."

"That's what your mom called you?" I push a little more, even though I can sense her discomfort. I saw how easy it was for girls at the Doll House to lose their identity, to let it slip away in favor of becoming a nameless omega. What I'm sure started as a defense mechanism turned into a complete erasure of who they are rather than just tucking it away for safekeeping.

"If I say yes, will you stop asking?" What could come off as a snarky remark instead is weighed down by desperation, like she's begging me to stop picking at a wound trying to heal.

Wanting to respect what she's chosen to protect for whatever reason, I opt for a complete conversation change. "Do you know what I'm doing today?"

The dress she brought isn't a ball gown, but it's nicer than the basic skirt and shirt from yesterday. Made of light blue-gray silk, it's shapeless like a tunic with long and loose sleeves. The modest neckline isn't high enough to cover my burn. But gratefully, it falls to my knees, easily covering the various hand and fingerprints bruised into my hips and thighs.

"Introductions," she answers and immediately begins curling my hair into loose waves. "It's the first day of the Trials— Well, technically the Trials began with the ceremony, but now it's really beginning."

It's the first time she's spoken like someone our age, rather than cowed to be proper and polite. Something about it makes me smile, which she notices in the vanity mirror.

She freezes, the curler in one hand and a section of my hair in the other. Her eyes shift uncomfortably like she said something she shouldn't have. "What?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Nothing, I guess." I leave it at that, and she hesitantly picks back up styling, her eyes cutting to mine suspiciously in the reflection every so often.

As she continues, I realize why I smiled.

For the first time in a while, it felt like talking to a friend.