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He did the same to the other breast.
And then he kept going with his mouth. Lower . . . lower . . .
“Jack!” she cried out.
Her fingers speared into his hair, and she pulled him tight to where he wanted to go, his lips to her sex, his tongue replacing his fingers. Plying at her, sucking at her, putting one of her legs over his shoulder, he pleasured her with his mouth until she orgasmed on his face—and then he kept right on going.
Jack had not intended to take things where they were, but he was glad—
For a moment, he paused.
He hadn’t realized that he’d begun thinking of himself with the name she used for him. It was a shift, like so many, that she created within him.
Something else to keep after she was gone.
Well, that happened, Nyx thought some time later as she sat alone on the sofa rock and twiddled her thumbs.
On a reflex that served no purpose, she lifted her wrist and pulled back the sleeve of the fresh tunic she’d put on. But there was no watch there. In fact, she never wore watches.
It was just one more tic she’d picked up since Jack had left her by the pool: Likewise, her left eye was twitching as if someone was flashing a strobe in it, and her foot was a metronome keeping a beat only her ankle could hear.
She wasn’t sure how long Jack had been gone. It felt like ten years, but it was probably only about twenty, twenty-five minutes. In the candlelight, by herself, she was jumping at shadows, a gun in her palm and her backpack strapped on under the full set of prison clothes Jack had insisted she wear—
With a gasp, she wrenched around, heart pounding in her ears.
Except it was nothing.
Every sound was a cause for alarm. Each subtle drip of wax or groundwater, all the variations of the rushing of the waterfall, even her own breath whistling in and out of her nose, was a call to attention. And in between those spikes of high alert, she retreated into her memories of the feeding and then what happened later, in the pool.
When all of that just made her chest hurt until she could barely stand it, she switched places in her head.
To imagining Janelle dying down here, under the earth, alone.
Yeah, because that was such an improvement.
Rubbing her eyes, she recalled the last clear memory of her sister. It had been two nights before the Council had met concerning the death of that older male, but after the accusation had been formally served on Janelle by a representative of the ruling body.
Last Meal. In their little farmhouse kitchen, at the four-top where they had eaten together all their lives. Janelle had been across from her, that red hair loose and drying in curls from the shower she’d just taken. Cornflakes . . . yes, they were having cornflakes, a bowl full in front of each of them. The only sound in the room, in the house . . . in the whole world, had been spoons knocking against the cheap china.
Janelle had been very calm. Which was what you were when you were innocent of the charges against you, and had faith that justice would prevail and the truth would come out in the end. You were at ease because you believed everything would be okay—because it was crazy for anyone to think you would ever kill anybody, much less an old male you worked for and had been fond of.
Nyx could remember drawing strength from that calm.
Everything was going to be all right. No matter how scary the formal accusation was, it was all going to be okay.
That was what she’d thought at the time.
From that memory, she went further back in time, recalling Janelle laughing out by the barn, and running wild in the rain as thunder had clapped and lightning sparked the night sky.
All of that was gone now, never to happen again, even though it hadn’t been happening since Janelle had been taken away, anyway. But the reality of that name listed on the Wall here in the prison was a hard stop, and as the loss truly sank in for the first time, Nyx realized that even though Janelle had been gone from the family, the fact that she had been alive somewhere had meant that there was a future. Somehow, somewhere . . . there had been a future, no matter how impossible it seemed.
Nyx’s baseless hope and characteristic determination had made tangible that which she could not touch, had brought home, at least in her mind, the one who had been lost. The number of days she had lain in her bed believing she would find Janelle, knowing she would, had been legion. Ultimately, however, the prophecy she had spun had not been self-fulfilling. And she had the picture of Janelle’s name from the Wall to prove it.
