Sovereign (Sovereign Series) (26 page)

 He
searches my eyes, his jaw tight.  “You mean it?”

“Yes.” 
I press against his hands that hold me back, trembling again.

He
seems uncertain, but relaxes the furrow in his brows and leans in, pressing his
mouth to mine.

I.

Don’t.

Breathe.

For
at least a hundred years, while his lips are still against mine.  He lets go of
my wrists and puts both hands against my neck, and they swallow me up.  Hands
so strong shouldn’t be this gentle, but he touches me like I could break, and I
think I might.  I think I
will
break.

Warmth
spreads across my chest, and the tension there oozes away--the pain, too.  I
take the deepest breath I’ve taken in ten years and let it go with a heavy
force behind it.  I’m free to breathe.  And being with Dylan is easy.

He
grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a tight embrace and I wrap both
arms around his back, squeezing him. 

He
kisses the crook of my neck lightly, spreading his hands across my back and
holding me.  I close my eyes as his hands glide over my back, caressing me. 
Comforting me. 
Loving
me. 

When
the sun is gone, Dylan lifts me and adjusts us so we’re laying together with
his back against the cushion, and my back against his chest.  There’s not as
much space as a bed would have, but we make do.  He wraps an arm over me and my
eyes get heavy.

This
is far more comfortable than the ground or the inside of a tree
.
 

There’s
a sound I don’t recognize that the darkness pulling me under won’t let me focus
on.  I want to listen to it longer, but I can’t hold on.  The last thing I
remember before falling asleep is Dylan kissing my hair.

“Time
to move,” Dylan whispers, with a hand on my shoulder.

I
open my eyes and take in the home filled with morning light.  I blink a few
times before moving.

“We
need to find clothes today, maybe some supplies, and then get back on our way.”

“Yeah. 
Okay,” I say as pleasantly as I’m capable in the morning.  I must say, it’s the
best sleep I’ve had in years.

We
eat and drink again, then decide against going back upstairs and opt to try
another home.  When we walk out the front door, I’m surprised to see another
row of nearly-identical homes facing us on the other side of a small street.

At
the house next door, we peek in through the windows.  We can’t tell much, but
there aren’t any bodies in plain sight, and that’s my only criteria, really. 

Dylan
pulls the screen off the window and tries to slide it open.  It takes a few
pushes before it gives, but it finally slides up with a creaking, scraping
sound.  Dylan moves the lacy cloth aside and hoists himself in.  He turns back
toward me and pulls me in by my armpits, the same way Twig lifted me.  I force
the thought of him away.

Once
I’m steady on my feet, the two of us look around the home for a moment. 
Dylan’s hand lingers on my back, and I don’t ask him to remove it.  I almost
don’t even flinch.  Almost.

“Try
upstairs?” I ask him.

He
nods, but when I start for the staircase, he hurries to get in front of me and
leads by several steps.  He checks the first room we come to and keeps moving,
making sure he peeks inside each door before I do.

After
looking in the third doorway, he closes it.  I pass a bedroom, and a room with
a desk then stand beside him.  I eye the closed door, curiously, but Dylan
shakes his head and steers me away from it.

I
don’t wonder why.  I
know
. 

The
final door we come to leads into a large room with the biggest bed I’ve ever
seen.  Wooden posts that stand at least ten feet tall support the frame.  The
linens are dusty, but I can tell they were comfortable and fluffy once.  Best
of all, there are no bodies.

I
walk into a closet that’s almost the size of my bedroom in Antius.  Clothing
hangs along both sides, shoes line the floor, and boxes are stored on shelves
across the top.

I
catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror that’s as tall as I am.  My clothes are
filthy, bloody, and torn.  There’s dirt on my face, and my hair is beyond
help.  The insect bite is almost unnoticeable now; I’m lucky it only bit me
once.

I
flip through some of the clothing and find a pair of pants that are made of
thick, heavy, blue fabric.  They feel rough, and I imagine they would offer
good protection. 

I
hear water come on from the other side of the wall and rush to see.  There’s an
oversized bathroom with a giant tub, a shower with glass walls, and two sinks
side-by-side.  The tiles look like stone, and the wood cabinets are a deep red
shade.  It’s all dusty, of course, but magnificent still.

After
a few minutes, like next door, the water in the shower runs clear. 

“Want
to go first?” he asks me, and I nod.  He leans in and kisses my forehead before
leaving the room, and shutting the door.  Our affection has passed the point of
no return, and I’ll surely never ask him to stop.  If I can stay out of my
head, someday I could actually enjoy it as much as he does.

I
drop the clean pants on the floor, then slip out of my boots, and peel off my
socks.  I shed my clothes quickly, hopping on the cold tiles on my tiptoes. I
land on a patch of fabric on the floor beside the shower, and it’s warmer
there.  Reaching in, I feel the cold water. 
It’s better than nothing.

I
step in and shiver as the cold water runs over me. 
I need to make this
quick
,
I think.  I soak my hair and let the
dirt wash down my body, rubbing my face with my hands.  I decide against the
soaps in the shower since they are probably toxic or poisonous by now. 

After
I’m shivering to the bone and I’ve rinsed off as much dirt as I can, I step out
of the shower, leaving it running for Dylan.  I look around and realize quickly
that I have nothing to dry off with.  I open all the cabinets and find
everything but towels.  I huff, wiping my face again.  Water keeps dripping
down from my hair.

I
dance over the cold floor and crack the door enough to peek out.  “Dylan,” I
say bashfully.

He
sits up on the bed which he’d pulled the blanket off and laid down on.  “Yeah?”
he says, anxiously, his eyes wide.

“I
can’t find a towel.”

“Oh.” 
He opens another door next to the closet and I hear a few cabinets being
rummaged through.  He comes to me with a towel.  I back away from the crack for
him to pass the towel through and grab it.  I shut the door quickly, hoping he
didn’t see my flushed face.

I
dry off and slide into the blue pants.  I put my stupid bra back on but realize
I didn’t grab a shirt. 

I
stand in the doorway with my hand on the knob wearing pants that are insanely
oversized, and a towel wrapped around my torso.  I dried my hair as much as I
could, but it’s still dripping.  I look ridiculous.

Dylan
stands before me with a new towel in his hands.

“Your
turn.”  I try to smile.  He brushes past me, turning sideways to slide by
without pushing me from the doorway.  As he passes, he kisses my temple, and I
think he smells my hair. 

I
don’t move for a moment, but when I glance over my shoulder, he’s pulling his
shirt off and dropping it on the floor.  He’s not looking at me.  But I’m
looking at him.  His hands drop to the front of his pants and he unsnaps the
button.

  I
close the door.

I
go back to the smaller bedroom.  A bed, a desk with some kind of screen--maybe
a computer--a chair, and a dresser.  There are pictures pinned to the wall of a
teenage boy posing with other kids.  Large artwork hangs on the walls, as well
as some words and designs drawn by hand with some sort of paint.  It looks like
scribble to me.

I
open the middle drawer in the dresser and find a pair of brown pants.  They fit
just right on my hips, then become looser down the legs, but taper in at the
ankle and stop at the right length.  They fit perfectly
.  I’m shaped like a
boy.

The
next drawer holds a bunch of t-shirts, most of them either black or gray.  I
pick the only white one and slide it on over my head.  I’ve had enough darkness
over the last ten years, white just feels better.  It’s snug, but the long
sleeves will keep me warm at night.  It feels wrong to take things, but I don’t
think the kid would mind.

I
plop onto the boy’s chair and dust flies up, making me cough.  After all that
trouble getting clean, I sit down in dirt. 

I
rake my fingers through my tangled hair and gather it in the back for a ponytail
but realize I left the elastic in the bathroom with Dylan. 

I
stand and round the corner back into the hallway when I see Dylan’s panicked
face in the doorway.  After a moment, he rushes toward me and shoves my boots
into my hands.  He opens the one closed door and shoves me inside by my
shoulders. 

“What
is it?”

“Shhh.” 
He fights his way into a fresh t-shirt.  “I think they found us.” 

“What?”

He
tugs his shoes on and it takes a minute for me to follow suit.  He walks to the
window in the tiny room--another bathroom I realize--and points outside.  In
the yard next door, a group of Nathan’s soldiers enter through the hole in the
fence that Dylan made and they march toward the house with weapons drawn.

Panic
rises up in my throat, and that’s when I see her--a woman lying dead in the
bathtub not three feet from me.  I only know it’s a woman because she was
wearing a dress when she died.  Her face is bone now.

Time
escapes me, logic and panic forgotten.  I stand staring at her for the longest
time before Dylan grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. 

“We
have to hide,” he says calmly.

“Where?” 
My eyes drift back to the body.

Dylan
surveys the room.  He opens the cabinets below the sink, and a tiny closet by
the shower, but shakes his head.  He grabs my hand and opens the door, peeking
into the hallway.

I
follow his lead, tiptoeing behind him toward the boy’s room.  I start to close
the door, but he stops me.  “No.  It’ll draw their attention.”  He’s so much
smarter than I am.  He looks around the room, trying to make a decision
quickly.  His hand slips to the back of his pants and he pulls out a gun,
offering it to me.

I
stare at it.  “Where’d you get that?”

“Off
the soldier in the woods,” he answers.  “I don’t know how to shoot.”

I
stare at the gun for another moment before grabbing it, checking the clip, then
chambering a bullet--my hands remember the motion more than my mind remembers
the steps.  I pull it close to my chest and follow Dylan toward the kid’s
closet, which extends sideways on either side of the door.  Dylan shoves me
inside and pushes me toward the left, away from the opening.  We shimmy behind
clothing and clutter, leaving the closet door open as well.  It feels wrong not
to close it, but I think Dylan’s right, it’s less conspicuous with them open
since every other door in the home is ajar.

 Dylan
piles some of the bags and junk in the floor around our legs to conceal them,
and I hope if someone comes, they won’t be able to see us.  I already know if
they found the hole in the fence, they’ll find the missing screen on the front
window, which we left open. 

Dylan
stands between me and the door with his back to my chest, and the gun between
us.  I think it would be smarter if the one who can use a weapon was in front,
but maybe I should just leave the “smart” department to Dylan.

I
could at least keep the weapon more handy, so I slide the gun out from between
us.  I wrap my arm in front of Dylan, holding my finger near the gun’s
trigger.  To keep myself steady, I plant my free hand on Dylan’s side.  He lays
his hand on top of mine, and I realize that it’s his hip, not his side.  If I was
taller, or he was shorter, it would be his side.  He caresses the back of my
hand for a moment longer, then we hear them breaking down the front door. 

They’re
not very subtle, but, then again, they weren’t trained for tracking.

My
heart is beating so loudly, I can’t even hear Dylan’s heavy breaths anymore; I
just feel his chest rise and fall against my gun-hand.  Suddenly, I become
woozy, like the world is caving in, and darkness is pressing in on me.  I try
to force my eyes to focus on the corners of the closet, the shelf and bar above
me, the clothes in front of me.  The water dripping down the back of Dylan’s
neck.  But it’s too dark in here.  My knees start to go weak and I find it hard
to breathe.  When my hands start trembling, Dylan grabs my wrists and pulls my
arms tight around his waist.  I know he would say something if he could, and I
try to imagine what that would be.

Footsteps
echo throughout the home, and I shudder when they reach the top of the
staircase.  Dylan squeezes my wrists, I assume to keep my attention on him
since he can’t speak.