“Yes.”
It’s not convincing. The lies we tell ourselves are the least convincing of all. But she takes me at my word and stacks the wood with thoughtful precision. A crackling fire burns within minutes, warming the room and drying out the damp air. Taylor prepares a rather modest meal of beans and rice using the sad kitchenette in the corner.
We dig in to our meal, and, to my astonishment, Taylor starts talking about her childhood in the Order, unprompted. While her expression rarely deviates from neutral, the fondness in her tone is palpable. She explains what it was like being the “youngest” of her not-siblings, about Javier and Alisa stealing her away from her solitude to enjoy family dinners, getting in and out of trouble with Hunter and Mason, and, finally, the intense pressure of being groomed to take power. Her voice loses its warmth by the end, and she sounds tired again.
“Why don’t you tell her you don’t want it?” I ask, returning to my spot on the floor after washing our dishes. “Don’t you think you’ve earned the right to do what you want?”
Taylor sits quietly and stares into the fire. “I grew up around some good people. A couple I trust. Fewer who I trust with my life. Only two who I would feel safe enough to tell this to, and though he wouldn’t say it, Mason would be disappointed.”
She looks at me knowingly and a bunch of responses burble up to my lips, but I smile and gently touch her hand. “Okay.”
“I don’t want to do anything. If we win, I want to stop. Stop fighting, stop killing, stop planning. I do not want to be a general or leader. I want to leave.” Shame and guilt color her words, and she winces away. It does nothing to quell the possessive impulse in me. “When you suggested we run away…to be honest with you, Lucy, it was the most tempted I’ve ever been.”
My heart flutters. For once in my life, I don’t know what to say. I can’t even manage a deflecting quip. This inability to function makes Taylor look away again.
“I know you were joking, I do not mean to imply otherwise.” Her tan skin, warmed by the fire, blushes deeper. She’s visibly on the verge of backtracking, so I grip my hand around her wrist.
“I would go with you in a heartbeat.”
For better or worse, the truth is finally out. Taylor looks shocked, but beneath the surprise, I see desire. This is the open door I’ve been waiting for. It’s now or never and I lean in, waiting for consent. If she wanted to repel me, she could do it faster than a blink. Hope burns like a molten ball of steel, floating in the liquid mercury of my desire.
She doesn’t move away. So, I kiss her.
It’s a soft, clunky kiss that lasts about five seconds before she pulls back, amber eyes wide open in shock. The apology is on the tip of my tongue, but she kisses me hard and it dies a swift death. It’s such sweet relief to pour my pent-up feelings into this burning, consuming kiss. She threads her fingers into my hair and tugs, hungry and searching. The idea that she feels the same way undoes me even faster than her lips. I am no stranger to a heated embrace—I’ve kissed my fair share of men and women, many of whom who were excellent at it—but it has never felt like this. The urgent wanting is familiar and incredible, but the soft yearning beneath is what stirs me.
As I deepen the kiss with a demanding tongue, she clambers on top of me and forces me to recline on the floor. The weight of her is welcome, as if I’ve been waiting my whole life to feel the compression of her body against mine. It takes all that’s within me not to frantically disrobe, so I grip two fistfuls of her shirt and hold on. The careful control she’s exhibited around me shatters, and she gives in to the violent surrender she’s denied us for months.
Her lips break from mine to press against my cheek, my jaw, the underside of my neck, and down the line of my throat until she gets to my chest. A curtain of blond hair falls on either side of her as she leans her forehead on my collarbone, panting against my skin.
Something has changed. When she looks up, her eyes no longer reflect desire and arousal, but anguish.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
I want to tell her she can and yank her back on me to unthread her so slowly she has no idea where she begins or ends. However, the look on her face stops me from trying to push further. She knows she’s about to break and she wants me to stop her. My heart hurts, but I nod anyway.
Taylor stands slowly, mumbles something about conducting a sweep, and hurries out the door, rifle in hand. While she’s gone, I wash and change in the bathroom and settle into my sleeping bag on the cot. By the time she returns, our cabin sits enshrouded in darkness, only the waning light of the fire illuminates her. With one eye open I watch her reignite the fire, crouched close to the flames, staring into them intently. Once changed, she takes up residence on the floor in her sleeping bag. She isn’t sleeping—the whites of her eyes glisten in the firelight.
“I’m sorry. I will not let that happen again.”
For a while I do not respond. I let the fire crackle, the wind howl outside, the faint echo of predatory animals bounce off thetrees. If she’s going to devastate me, I won’t let her do it in half measures. So, several minutes later, I ask, “Why not?”
“It’s unethical of me to take advantage of the dynamic between us. I’m…I’m your—you’re my ward.”
“I think you know that’s no longer strictly true. The dynamic between us has changed.”
“You’re right. It has changed,” she replies softly. “It’s too risky. Whatever this is…it’s distracting me from the job I have to do. I cannot afford to be distracted. Distraction means death.”
Well, no half measures here. “Right. I’m a distraction. I got it.”
“Lucy, you know that’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t worry about it, Lieutenant General. Good night.”
Turning over, I face the windows and let the tears fall freely. Sideways down the slope of my nose, hitting the pillow with quiet thumps. Over the roar of the fire, I hear her sigh, and I know she won’t be getting any sleep tonight. Good. May my discontent be the pea under her mattress that keeps her awake. I’ll be kept awake by the deafening sound of my heart breaking.
16
Morning’s chill awakens me with a shiver. It seeps through the gaps in the wood like breath, and caresses my skin beneath the blanket. My other senses come alive one by one. The taste of yesterday in my mouth. The scratch of a wool blanket. The sound of the fire. The smell of cinder, sugar, and bread.
