10

After a quick, tepid shower, I dressed in soft cotton shorts and a camisole, ready for bed. The bathroom just off the main room was narrow and cramped with the shower stall on one end, then a toilet and porcelain basin lined up with barely space to move. My backside hit the wall as I bent over the basin. Between the cool shower and obvious lack of heating in the apartment, goosebumps shivered my skin.

If this was the standard of living in The Smoke, it wasn't great. As I brushed my teeth, I chewed over something Roman had said.

Capra never has shortages of any sort.

The Smoke went without while we had plenty of everything…except any type of autonomy over our lives. Women were subjected to far more restrictions than the men, but only the handful of men in power were really exempt—everyone else, male and female, lived within the strict confines of the council's rule.

Was the trade-off worth it?

Jenna Simmons hadn't thought so. "I don't want to marry a stranger. I'd rather be worked to the bone in The Smoke for measly rations." She'd refused to graduate from St. Ives, even if it meant being cast out of society, leaving behind her family, friends, everyone and everything she'd even known.

I'd wondered about her many times, wondered if she still felt it was worth it. Now that I was here, I was determined to find out.

When I came out of the bathroom, Roman was at the kitchen counter, eating from a brown paper bag.

He jiggled the bag at me. "I haven't been here in a while, so I only have dry crackers and bottled jerkins, if you're hungry."

"That's okay." I'd had dinner before we left and while my stomach felt empty after the long hours of walking, I was too bone-tired (and freezing cold) to care. "I just want to crawl into bed."

I looked around for my overnight bag, and saw Roman had moved it from the couch to the floor. That's when I noticed the blanket and pillow he'd piled onto the couch.

"That's not necessary," I told him. "The bed's big enough for both of us."

"I'm happy on the—"

"Don't be ridiculous." My extremities were turning blue from the cold and he planned to curl up on the couch with a single blanket? "This apartment feels like the north pole."

"You've never been to the north pole."

"I have an imagination." So far as I was concerned, this conversation was done. I grabbed the bedding from the couch and tossed it onto his side of the bed.

He popped a cracker into his mouth and chewed, watching my antics with a cocky brow.

"If you really want to sleep on the couch, go for it. But seriously, I wouldn't mind the body heat." I heard myself and winced. "You know what I mean."

He didn't tease me about it. Then again, playful innuendos weren't really his style. "I have a portable heater, but it's out of charge. We'll be more organized tomorrow."

"I look forward to it." I climbed into bed and snuggled deep, happy to discover the comforter was down feathers and plump.

I didn't say anything, though. I didn't want to give Roman ideas about that couch and skimpy blanket. The last thing I needed was to wake up to my first morning in The Smoke with a frozen corpse on my hands.

That wasn't the whole story, of course. A part of me craved the comfort of him being near, near enough to touch if I reached out, near enough to catch me if I fell into a nightmare. I'd been having recurring nightmares about being chased over the bridge, and tonight I was in a strange land, in a strange home. Despite everything that had happened and odds I hadn't seen coming, I honestly did trust Roman with my life...and my nightmares.

Warmth stole into me and my eyelids grew heavy. "Night."

"Goodnight, Georga," was the last thing I remember before sleep took me.

The next thing I knew, Roman was stirring me awake with a hand on my shoulder. "Coffee's almost ready and the bread is warm." His voice retreated. "Wake up, sleepy head."

I lay there for another minute before the aroma of coffee tickled my nose. Pulling the comforter up with me, I rested against the wall at the head of the bed.

The temperature in the room felt almost pleasant, and I noted a fan heater whirring away on the table. It was plugged in, which meant the electrics had been switched on, which meant a hot shower—I hoped.

I turned to Roman to ask, and got ever so slightly distracted at the sight of him in black cotton trunks and nothing else. The lack of dividing walls gave me a clear view to the kitchen where he moved about, setting up a breakfast tray.

We were married, we'd shared a bed twice now, and yet I'd never seen him less than fully dressed. My gaze travelled from his messy hair all the way down to his lithe thighs. Every inch of him was tanned, lean and ripped.

My mouth went dry.

He shoved a hand through his hair to pull it back from his eyes as he half-turned a look on me, and trapped my gaze in his. I swear time stood still. My heart didn't beat. The fan didn't whirr. My last thought froze on how impossibly, sinfully beautiful he was and no new thoughts came to take its place.

The expresso pot hissed and he dipped his gaze to the hot plate, releasing me from that hypnotic moment. My pulse was erratic, chasing missed beats, and it didn't help that I was instantly horrified at my insistence we share a bed last night.

Nothing had happened, obviously. I'd crashed the moment my head hit the pillow. Had he even climbed in beside me? The blanket on his side was rumpled. I flung it back and it was clear he'd slept on top of the comforter.

I didn't know if that was better or worse.

I shook my head at myself and slipped out of bed. It wasn't like I'd forced him into sharing the bed. I'd made a suggestion, that's all.

A noise escaped my throat.

Roman looked at me. "Everything okay?"

"I was just wondering if there'll be hot water for the shower."

"There will be, but let's have breakfast first." He brought the tray over to the table, balancing it on the edge with one hand while he moved the heater to the floor to make space. "We should talk and I don't have long, if I'm going to catch a ride back on the supply train."

"Back to town?" Since Roman's t-shirt claimed the chair, I propped myself on the couch arm that butted up against the table. "You're going to work?"

Fortunately he put the t-shirt on before he sat down across from me. Not that I minded the view, but there was definite risk of drool.

"And I have to move the truck," he said. "It'll look suspicious if anyone comes across it parked in the woods for too long."

For some weird reason, I'd assumed he'd never leave me here to my own devices. Apparently I was wrong.

Freedom loomed before me.

I restrained it. "Am I allowed to leave the apartment?"

"Could I stop you?" He gave me a wry smile, handing me a mug of coffee like a peace offering. "That's why we need to talk. There are things you should know if you're going to go wandering around on your own."

I beamed a smile in return over the rim of my mug and sipped. The caffeine hit my bloodstream with a heartfelt sigh. In the light of day, The Smoke felt a whole lot less mean than it had last night. Any place that had proper coffee couldn't be all bad.

I cast my attention on the tray. There were chunky slices of bread and small pots of butter and jam.

We helped ourselves and ate while Roman talked.

"We don't use citizen numbers here." He reached down to rummage through his backpack and pressed a paper thin black, plastic disc on the table. "This stores our credits. If you want to pay for anything, you just hand them this card."

I picked it up to examine. The card was completely black except for six digits in the bottom right hand corner. "Are these numbers the equivalent of our citizen number?"

"We call it a birth number." He reached into his backpack again. "We don't have ring tattoos here, either, and it's imperative that you blend in. People here don't generally get into your business, but if you stand out, they'll notice."

I set the card down and splayed my fingers out, studying the ring tattoo on my left hand. "Am I supposed to keep my hand in my pocket at all times?"

"I got something for that when I went out for groceries this morning." He planted an elbow on the table and leaned in, and the tips of his fingers brushed the tips of mine.

A warm shiver rippled my spine at the sensation.

Then his palm slid over mine and he wrapped my four fingers with his, and looked into my eyes.

I had no idea what was happening. I was pretty sure he didn't, either. He'd taken my hand and looked into my eyes, and now he seemed to have forgotten why.

I didn't care.

The gentle strength folded around my fingers held me captivated. His skin was course where mine was soft, hot where mine was cool. It felt both foreign and familiar, not sexual and yet breathlessly intimate, and the way he looked at me, it felt like he was touching something deeper, much, much deeper, in me. It was the most unusual feeling I'd ever experienced, and I never wanted to let it go.

A smile shaped his mouth. Not a wicked grin. Not an arrogant smirk. Not amusement. This smile sank into my senses and warmed me from the inside out.

He seemed to catch himself. The smile faded as he separated my fingers, although his eyes never left mine, and I couldn't look away, until I felt the slide of cool metal.

I blinked and dropped my gaze to see what he was slipping onto my finger. A ring of sorts, although unlike any ring I'd ever seen. The band was metal with a spray of blue crystal chippings embedded on the top, and wide enough to cover the tattoo.

He released my hand. "It's just a cheap alloy ring I picked up at the market this morning. One size fits all, since I didn't have your measurement."

I turned my hand over and saw that although he'd slid it on, the ring actually hooked over my finger, nearly all the way around but not quite. I held my hand up again, admiring the sparkle as the crystals caught the light. "What gems are these?"

"Probably colored glass."

Colored glass and alloy metal.

I loved it.

"It beautiful," I said, smiling at him. "Thank you."

"It's practical." He shrugged me off, although I did detect a hint of gruffness in his tone. "One more thing. This suburb we're in is called Gardens. If you get lost, ask around. Anyone will be able to direct you back here. But…" he trailed off.

I waited.

His brow lowered on me. "I know it goes against the grain for you to not do the opposite of what you're told, but this isn't Capra. Don't wander too far from here and whatever you do, don't go near the Packing District. That's Blood Throat territory."

I pulled a face at the gruesome description. "Lovely."

"They're a street gang."

"With bloody throats?" I snorted.

He didn't appreciate my humor. "They're known for cutting out the throats of their enemies. And before you ask, if you're not their friend, you're their enemy. They don't play well with strangers."

"Okay," I dragged through my teeth. "I'll avoid them like the plague."

"You do that," he said with a sharp nod. "And make sure you keep to places where there are people around you at all times. There are unsavory parts to The Smoke, and unsavory characters everywhere."

"And the wardens don't care?"

"Most of them don't, but that's neither here nor there." His eyes darkened, as if I'd brewed a storm in there with one careless observation. "Our jurisdiction falls strictly in the Hot Zone and the border to the wild."

"Then who maintains order here?"

"Politics in The Smoke is complicated."

"I have time."

"I don't." He drained his coffee and stood. "We'll talk about this tonight, okay? I still need to shower and if I miss the train, it's a long hike back to town."

"Give it to me in a couple of sentences," I insisted. "Seriously, you can't just mention Blood Throat gangs and then throw me out on the streets. I need to know what I'm walking into."

"If you do as I asked and stay in this area, you won't be walking into trouble. The Protectorate is established here in Gardens. It's a pretty safe zone."

The Protectorate? My mind exploded. "Roman!"

His brow lowered, then he checked his watch and sighed. "I guess I can skip my shower."

I rolled from the upholstered arm onto the seat of the couch to get comfortable. I didn't feel bad about his shower. Not at all. I had Blood Throats to contend with.

He crossed the room to open a wardrobe built into the wall beside the bed. I'd assumed it was a linen closet, and there were towels and bedding on some of the shelves, but the other shelves and the hanging rack was filled with clothes. It was a reminder to me that this was Roman's home…away from home, or whatever.

"The political structure in The Smoke is meant to mimic that of Capra," he said as he pulled a pair of warden black cargo pants from a hanger. "Capra has the council and the Guard. The Smoke has The Protectorate and Protectors. That works well in Capra, but The Smoke is a different kind of animal and along the way, the power here devolved."

I was listening, but my gaze softened and a sigh expelled through me as he stripped his t-shirt. Muscle rippled across his broad chest.

"Unions quickly formed in The Smelt and The Break." He glanced at me. "The Smelt is the district where all the heavy industry is located, and The Break has the factories."

"Unions?"

"It doesn't matter." He turned his back to me and pulled on his cargo pants. "The union leaders took absolute power and those districts are now run by what we call The Families, the Hanson family in The Smelt and the Grabough family in The Break. The Packing District, of course, has the Blood Throats."

"Are they also a family?"

He shook his head. "They started out as smaller street gangs and, over time, merged into the Blood Throats."

"This all sounds worse than the Outerlands."

"It's not," he said, dead serious. "That's how bad the wild is."

He left me to digest that as he disappeared into the bathroom.

I couldn't really wrap my head around everything he'd said, but one thing was crystal clear. The Smoke sounded as horrific as I'd grown up believing.

Not everything was a lie.

When Roman reappeared, he continued, "The Protectorate have the firepower and the means to wrestle back control, but they're only interested in their own agenda. So long as The Families and the Blood Throats maintain order in their districts and keep The Smoke functioning, everyone is happy with the status quo."

Not everyone, I realized by the acerbic edge to his tone. I didn't call him out on it, though. I wasn't happy about anything I'd heard so far, either.

He turned from me to grab a top from the wardrobe and finished dressing, pulling on his coat before he walked up to me. "And now, I really must go."

I smiled sweetly. "Just one more thing."

His jaw squared with impatience.

"I was hoping to track down Jenna." At the blank look on his face, I elaborated. "Jenna Simmons. The girl who didn't graduate? The guards dragged her out the hall."

"Right, you've mentioned her before."

I hooked a brow on him. "I begged you to tell me what you'd done with her."

"Nothing," he said. "Wardens don't handle Capra expulsions."

"Who does, then?"

"The Guard would have handed her over to a Protector on the supply train. That's how the exiled are brought here."

"Jenna is here, then?"

"So far as I know, that's how the system works."

"And you can find out what happened to her, can't you? I mean, like an address or something. Anything?"

"The Protectorate doesn't keep us in the loop, and they don't share information." He hesitated, considering his next words before he spoke. "You could try hostel city. If she's still being processed, that's where she'll be."

Processed? That sounded like something off a factory line. "How do I get to hostel city?"

"Can you find your way back to the entrance we came through last night?"

I thought about it, and nodded. We hadn't walked far.

"The Processing Center is attached to one of those parking lots. It's a sprawling brick building." He glanced at his watch and grimaced. "Hostel city is just up the road from there. You'll know it when you see it."

"Okay, thanks."

"Georga." He scrubbed his jaw, studying me. "Is that a good idea? How well do you know this Jenna?"

"We went to school together." After everything he'd told me, I was desperate to know that she was okay.

"You'd trust her with your life?" When I didn't immediately respond, he went on, "Because that's what you'll be doing. She knows you don't belong here. What will she do with that?"

I wasn't entirely sure.

Jenna had always been an anomaly. She'd defied everything we'd been brought up to be and taken charge of her own fate. She was fiercely brave, or brutally stupid—I'd yet to decide—but I wanted her to be okay.

I needed her to be okay, selfishly, because some days it felt like I was hurtling down a similar path. Roman called me reckless, but I preferred defiant, brave…and hopefully not brutally stupid.