Page 61 of Last Man Standing

Tattoos cover his chest and arms. His neck. Some stretch up to tickle the underside of his jaw. He wears ink like armor, designs like a brand he’s proud of. Some are in color, others are mere shades of the same black.

He wears faces amongst the designs, like these people are his gods. A woman in the center of his chest. Another on the ball of his shoulder. A man bleeds, bruised and broken, by his hand. And birds fly among the busy designs. Feathers—the beautiful, dark green kind—flitter not so far from his ribs, and some others take up prime position over his heart.

Sebastion’s ink was clearly not the work of a single, thought-out design. Rather, years and years of new ideas, of separate days spent in a tattoo artist’s studio, and when each new sketch got a little too close to another, the artist created a bridge of patterns and words, shadows and color, to make the entire canvas flow.

If I didn’t dislike the man so much, I might consider asking about each drawing. Why that face? Why that bird? Who were you thinking about when you decided this? Does it look exactly how you hoped it would? Will you get more? When?

But I can’t, because that’s not the kind of relationship we have. Worse, he carried me to his bed last night without my permission.

Swallowing the nerves pulsing in my throat, I fist the phone and drag the blankets off my body. I move silently, carefully, and when Sebastion’s breath hitches for a beat, I freeze and wait him out.

Will he wake? Will he hold me down?

Please, God. Please don’t hold me down.

Nausea makes my stomach ache, and anxiety makes the ache a million times worse. Holding my breath and keeping my movements slow, I push up on the mattress, twist, and set my feet on the floor.

Please don’t squeak. Please don’t squeak. Please don’t squeak.

Gritting my teeth and dragging the end of my hoodie down, I inch off the bed and stop in complete silence. Clamping my lips shut, I peek over my shoulder at a still-asleep Sebastion.

I draw a shuddering breath and tiptoe away from the bed, dropping the phone into my hoodie pocket and casting a glance toward the window.

To the rhythmic consistency of exercising men outside.

Bending at the door and carefully inching the chair out from beneath the handle, I set it aside and peek back at Sebastion one last time. He fell asleep on his belly last night, but now he dozes on his side. His arms are folded up, his hands curled beneath his chin. His shoulders are large, too large, and slump from poor posture, but none of that matters nearly as much as knowing he’s still asleep.

He didn’t grab me. Didn’t pull me back. And he didn’t shoot up on the mattress and cock a gun in my direction for sneaking away.

Shaking my head, I turn and carefully squeeze the doorknob, pulling the door open and squinting in response to the blinding light in the hallway.

Do they never turn them off?

Crossing the threshold on my toes and twisting back to close the door again, I peek along the hall to my right.

Empty.

Then to the left.

Empty.

Drawing a shaking breath, I straighten my back and turn in the direction we walked last night, along the freezing hall as goosebumps race across my exposed limbs.

For every step I take, I keep my ears pricked in case anyone else wanders nearby. For every foot I put between myself and Sebastion’s room, I count the thuds of my heart. For as long as I feel those, I’m alive, and if I’m alive, then I suppose I still have a chance, someday, in some faraway fantasy land, to stop being such a whiny bitch and actually take part in saving my damn self.

So far, the stats aren’t really in my favor.

I lick my lips and tiptoe toward the next door, the one I know leads to the family’s private kitchen, and though I could search for the large room, the one with all the bench seats, it’s a little too close to six o’clock for my comfort.

Running into a platoon of Arabella Aster’s soldiers while I’m all alone, without underwear, and so clearly disliked by the woman they take orders from, is not a smart plan. Instead, I sneak into the family’s kitchen and spy the coffee pod machine perched in the corner of a glistening stone countertop.

Nerves threaten to make me puke. Fear of getting caught makes me reconsider my stance on asking Sebastion the stories behind his ink. But the coffee machine is right there, and not a single soul loiters in the kitchen. I see no guards in the hall, nor do I hear the clang of pots and pans in whatever other kitchen cooks use to prepare breakfast for the masses.

I’m all alone, and if I’m expected to make smart decisions today—like shooting Sebastion, stealing his gun, and running away to freedom—then I need coffee.

Swallowing the slick in my throat, I tiptoe across the threshold and snatch a mug from a stack drying on the sink. None of the mugs are uniform, none match, some are chipped, and the one in my hand is a dark, dirt brown, thicker than the average mug, and with a deep beehive-esque pattern etched into the ceramic.

I search desperately around the coffee machine for a pod to jam in the top, but this is not nearly as simple as finding the mugs, so I pull a drawer open, prepared to search them all, only to hit the jackpot on my first attempt. I find dozens, perhaps hundreds of different flavored pods. Selecting an extra strong coffee, I close the drawer, lift the latch on top of the machine, slip the pod into place, close the latch once more, then I tap the blacked-out control panel and thank the universe when this one literally gives me the option to START.