Sovereign (Sovereign Series) (22 page)

“What’s
a date?”  As long as he’s whispering, I might as well humor him.

“It’s
where a guy takes a girl he loves.  Or,” he seems confused for a moment.  “Or
he wants to love her, but he isn’t sure yet if she loves him, too. 
Or...something like that.” 

“What
happens on a date?”

He
takes a deep breath.  “Well, I think you have to ask her father for permission
first and then you take her out.  How does a picnic on the beach sound?”  He’s
speaking like a small child, innocent and matter of fact. 

“It
sounds nice, Dylan.”  This subject is strange, so I change it.  “How are you
feeling?”

“Can
I meet your father?”

“I
don’t think so, Dylan.  I’m sorry.”  He knows my father’s gone.

“No,
don’t be silly.  I’ll meet him tomorrow.”  He rubs the skin just under the
edges of my sleeves. 

I
have no idea where he’s coming up with this stuff.  I can’t resist the
curiosity, and there’s a good chance now’s the best time to ask.  I take my
hand off his mouth. 

“Have
you thought about this stuff a lot?”  I continue to speak directly into his
ear.

He
exhales and his breath blows my hair, which I suddenly realize is a matted mess
in his face.  I’m surprised it’s not suffocating him.  I go to move it, but he
beats me there, pulling it away from his face and laying it across my neck.  He
pats it down a few times and lets his fingers linger on my skin.  If I bat his
hands away, he might stop whispering.  I tighten my jaw.

“Of
course.  Every day.”  It’s too loud again.

“Shhh,”
I remind him. 
Every day?

“I’m
sorry,” he says in an exaggerated whisper, picking up a lock of my hair and
moving it again. 

“It’s
okay.”  

I
don’t know what else to do or say, so I turn my face from him and wish I could
crawl out of this pit.  It’s light outside.  The men are probably long gone,
but how can I be sure?

The
confinement is getting to me.  I’ve had my body pressed against another
person’s for far too many hours.  And his hands have been on me at every
opportunity.  I have to get out of here soon.  My fingers move idly from
anxiety, and when I realize they’re moving against Dylan’s skin, I stop.  It
wasn’t an intentional gesture, and he’s not himself right now, but I told
myself I wouldn’t encourage this...problem.

Confusion
and annoyance aside, I’m happy he’s awake now.

All
the parts of my body making contact with Dylan are already on edge.  I’m
tense.  When leaves outside the tree crinkle, the remainder of my body comes
alive with electricity.  I feel a piece of hair--probably the same stubborn
piece--fall back into Dylan’s face, and he moves it again.

“It
just keeps falling,” he says with laughter bubbling up from his chest.  I
replace my hand on his mouth.

“Shh,”
I whisper as softly as I can.  I hear the movement again, trying to picture how
far away the source must be.  Why don’t I hear voices?  They’ve not been the
most silent of hunters thus far.

Dylan
moves my hand and his lips graze my ear as he whispers, “Can we get up now? 
I’m hungry.  This bed isn’t very comfortable.”

I
pull back and look him in the eye, pleading silently.  The hairs on the back of
my neck stand on end as the next sounds seem closer.

Dylan
takes a breath to speak, but I can’t let him.  I touch his lips with mine,
squeezing my eyes tightly.  Good idea, Cori, but so much for my ground rules. 
Maybe
he won’t remember
.

I
open my eyes to find Dylan perfectly compliant, his eyes closed, his expression
relaxed.  It worked, now I just have to keep him this way.  When he starts to
open his eyes, I kiss him again.  He half-grins, a picture of calm.  I let my
shoulders relax, and listen for more movement.  I hear none. 

I
kiss him on the cheek absently, still careful, still listening.  I look at his
lips, his nose, his cheeks.  I can’t remember ever being this close to a person
before.

I
can’t look away, but I can’t look at his eyes either.  And I
know
he’s
looking at mine.  When did I become such a coward?

My
arms are shaking from propping myself up, and I’m worried my elbows are digging
into him.  I still don’t hear anything outside.

I
shift my weight to the right and Dylan scoots onto his side to accommodate me. 
I place my index finger against my lips to remind him to be quiet.  He nods and
looks around us, with a childlike suspicion growing in his eyes.  He probably
thinks it’s a game, judging by the way the corner of his mouth keeps trying to
turn upward, but he stops it before it turns into a smile.

I’m
starving, and I’m sure he is, too.  But with movement out there, we really
ought to stay put, at least a bit longer.  I rest my head in the crook of
Dylan’s elbow and close my eyes.  Mostly because I want to avoid his gaze,
which hasn’t left me in minutes. 

Hours. 

Days. 

Years.

I
cannot escape it.  There’s nowhere to go.  And there’s nothing to do except
give into the exhaustion.

My
mind is a flurry of information.  Sensations, instincts.  Memories,
assessments.  I remind myself to assess.

Assess
what?
 My surroundings. 

My
eyes pop open, and I am alone.  I can’t believe I fell asleep
again
.  I
need food or I’ll never overcome this fatigue.  I look up and down the tunnel
both ways and don’t see Dylan.  Panic rises in my chest, my heart beating
faster. 

I
crawl out of the tree as quickly as I can, scraping my elbows along the way. 
About the time I reach the opening, I realize my boot is back on my foot.  The
lace is single-knotted.  I tie doubles.

“Dylan,”
I whisper harshly into the brush I’m facing.  No movement. 

I
crawl into the bushes and try to look through the holes between leaves.  No
soldiers that I can see.

I
decide the coast--right here, at least--is clear.  I rise from the underbrush
and half-crouch, half-stand while I continue looking in every direction.  I
don’t see guards, and I don’t see Dylan.

There
are plenty of footprints but there’s no way to tell which are Dylan’s.  A surge
of panic rushes through me as I consider the possibility that he’s been
caught.  If he’s still loopy, he could have wandered out there and right into
their hands.  But then wouldn’t they have found me, too?  

I
have to find him.  He could have gone in any direction.  In his right mind, I’d
say he would have tried to seek out water.  But the odds are he’s still not in
his right mind.  It’ll be evening soon and he still doesn’t have a shirt.  I
brush off a pinch of guilt and start moving. 

I’m
careful how I place my feet, trying my best to keep quiet.  I don’t want to
follow a particular set of tracks exactly, because I could be following my
pursuers.  Instead I work outward, keeping my eyes open.

After
ten minutes, the woods get thicker, so I rule out that direction and turn
back.  I don’t want to get too far from where we started, just in case he comes
back.

I
pass back by and keep walking, heading the direction of the pond.  There are
several huge bootprints in a muddy path, and I realize I didn’t do a very good
job of covering my own tracks yesterday.  Luckily I’m light-footed, and tried
to stay out of the mud. 

Or
maybe they’re tracking me now
.
  I look back, checking each direction.

I
keep moving, this time staying on sticks and leaves, choosing noise over tracks
as the ground gets muddier the closer I get to the pond.

I
hear a tiny, almost unnoticeable splashing sound ahead, and I duck behind a
tree, waiting.  It comes again.  I have no choice but find out what it is. 
There’s a chance it’s Dylan.  Also a chance it’s
them
.  And a very, very
small chance it’s an animal.  But I have to know.

I
step toward the noise, balancing my feet on the overgrown roots poking out of
the ground.  I skip across a divide and cling to another tree. 

I
smell the water and hear a faint trickle from wherever the water is coming
from.  Though I didn’t see a stream yesterday, I hear one now.  As I take a
deep breath, I inhale the scent of dirt and wood.  Remembering the smells of
concrete confinement, I think,
Dirt smells like freedom.
 

I
peek around the corner.  Next to the pond, a bare-backed man crouches with his
hands in the water.  I start toward him, thinking it has to be Dylan, but stop
myself when I notice a pile of clothes on the ground next to him.  Soldier’s
clothes. 

My
balance falters and my boot lands on a twig, snapping it in two.  My heart
leaps into my throat chasing a gasp, and I clap my hand over my mouth to
contain the sound. 

I
press my back to the tree, hoping I’ll go unnoticed, but I hear movement behind
me.  If I run, he could shoot me.  I’m certain he’s armed.  But why is he
alone?  Trying to picture all of the guards I saw the day before, I can’t
remember one of them having that shade of skin and that color hair. 

Who
is
he?  Footsteps come closer to me.  I’m caught.  It’s over now.  I
can’t go back.  They’ll kill me, or worse.

So
I run.  I’m starving, thirsty, clumsy, and loud, but I have to run.  I won’t go
without a fight.  I don’t look over my shoulder; I can’t risk it.  After jumping
over a pile of broken limbs and ducking under a low-hanging branch, I come to a
clear area and sprint, knowing this
is my chance to get a lead. 
I beat Sean, I can beat whoever’s chasing me.

I
move my legs as quickly as I can.  My ankles hurt, and the boots are
unforgiving. 
Don’t get caught,
I repeat over and over in my head.

His
breaths are labored, but steady.  He’s breathing in through his nose, and out
through his mouth with the exact same puff sound on every exhale.  He’s
calculated, he’s calm, and he knows his body.  But he’s slower than me. 
Without looking back, I can tell he’s falling behind.

I’m
running out of level ground, approaching more thick woods.  As soon as I cross
the tree line, I’m going to break left and try to lose him.

But
I can’t stand it, I have to look.  I’ve put enough distance, so I glance back. 
The moment I start to focus on him, my foot catches on something and I topple
to the ground, rolling over myself and bumping into a tree. 
Stupid
.

I’m
winded, but I force myself back onto my feet.  Before I’m even steady, the
man’s body collides with mine.  I turn away from him but his hands close around
my arms and I see nothing but white hot rage.  I thrash against him, kicking
back and hitting him on the shin.  He lets out a groan that sounds familiar. 
And he doesn’t let go.

“Stop,”
he commands me in a loud, forceful whisper.  It’s Dylan.  I really
am
an
idiot.

I
turn toward him and slam my hand against his chest.  “Let me go.”

“What’s
gotten into you?” he says, still in a soft voice.

My
cheeks burn up with blush.  “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because
I
was trying
not
to get caught.”  At
least he’s himself now.

“I
saw the clothes beside you.  I thought you were one of them.”  I glare at his
hands still wrapped around my wrists.

He
releases me and I exhale.

“I’m
sorry I frightened you.  I was afraid to call out; I don’t think they’re very
far away.”  He looks around suspiciously over his shoulders.

“Right.”

“Let’s
get back to the pond.  I need those clothes.”  My eyes drop to his torso.  It’s
much more glorious in daylight.  I don’t smile, but he does, just a little.

I
roll my eyes and start marching back toward the pond.  He follows closely with
his hand in the middle of my back as if to guide me.  I walk a little faster to
break the contact, and he makes some kind of noise I can’t identify. 

When
we get back to the pond, I kneel by the pile of clothes.  Before I can ask, he
speaks up.  “I got them off the body.”

“What?” 
I look up at him.  “What body?”

“One
of them died.  Some kind of insect bites.  They’re all over his face and
neck.”  I feel the color drain from my face, and lift a hand to my cheek.  The
bite wound is still swollen.  That could have been me. 

Dylan
picks up a white t-shirt and slides it over his shoulders.  Once it’s over his
head, he tugs it by the hem over his abdomen.  He inspects the pants, but seems
to decide against them.  He picks up the man’s jacket and walks toward me.

“Here.” 
He extends the coat.  “Put this on.” 

“I’m
fine.  If you need it--”

“Just
put it on, Cori.  Please.”

Slowly,
I take it from him and fold it over my arm.  I’ll put it on if I get cold. 
Right now, I’m burning hot.  I can’t pinpoint exactly why, though.