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The air is thick with anticipation, but eventually, he caves.
When he places the switchblade into my palm, every part of me sings in victory, but I remain passive.
“Thank you…??????.”
A hiss escapes him as he takes a small step back, which is exactly the response I wanted. But I play it off and instead turn, hunting for a saucepan. When I find a small one, I place it on the stovetop and pour half a bottle of water into it.
I may have agreed to use the knife, but I won’t be using it without boiling it first. As I wait for the water to boil, I hunt for a chopping board and some bowls. Once I decide on eggs and hash browns, my mouth waters at the thought of freshly baked biscuits.
As the water begins to boil, I dump the blade into the pot, hoping it’ll be sanitized to the point of being able to use it without remembering it took someone’s life. But I know it never will.
Needing a distraction, I reach for the flour and dry milk and decide to attempt to make biscuits. It’s my comfort food, and right now, I need all the comfort I can get. Once the knife has bubbled and boiled for a few minutes, I turn off the stove and reach into the water with tongs. Images of using this blade for my escape crash into me as I begin to wonder if Saint is now unarmed.
Peering at his statue—arms folded, eyes sharp, legs spread—I know there is no way I’d make it three steps. Besides, I have to pick my battles wisely, and doing this is for the greater good.
Curling my fingers around the cold handle, I detach myself from what it’s capable of, of what I’ve seen it do, and focus on the good it can do, like make me breakfast. I begin to peel the potatoes, willing my shaky fingers to steady. It’s a little hard to do, however, when Saint pulls up a chair, straddles it, and watches me intently.
My heart is racing, and I’m certain he can see my fear, but I continue working, fixated on making food because I’m suddenly famished. “Can I make some coffee?”
Saint nods.
For the next twenty minutes, I work like a madwoman, but it’s nice to lose myself in normality seeing as I’ve been surrounded by anything but. Once I’m done, I stand back, smiling at my creation. With limited ingredients and supplies, I was able to whip up hash browns, eggs, and biscuits, which are a little flat, but regardless, they smell amazing. The coffee, however, is the crème de la crème because after living without it for four days, my body craves a caffeine hit.
Saint has watched me the entire time, which, of course, is no surprise. I have to earn his trust before he leaves me unsupervised, which is why I give his knife a wash and slide it across the table. “Thank you.”
He reaches for it and places it into his back pocket. “You’re welcome, ?????.”
“What does that mean?” It’s out before I can stop myself.
Saint stiffens as if he’s just been called out, which just intrigues me further. He comes to a slow stand, and I gulp when peering upward, examining his tall stature. “Let’s eat.” And that puts an end to a conversation Saint clearly has no interest in having.
Yet his evasiveness just intrigues me all the more.
I’ve made enough food to feed a small nation, so I reach for four plates and serve up breakfast. Once the coffee is poured, I wait for further instruction. Saint turns over his shoulder and shouts in Russian. Although the language is so foreign to me, I find it almost entrancing when spoken in Saint’s hoarse tone.
When the two Russians pound down the stairs, all entrancement is long gone.
They look at the food on the table and then up at me. This is strange, to say the least, but clearly, their appetite is more important than dealing with this weirdness as they almost fight one another to snatch a plate for themselves.
Saint steps aside, allowing the scavengers to feed first.
I sip my coffee, relishing in the bitterness. I don’t fancy eating down here as I’m tired of the dark. I want to feel the sunshine against my skin. I also need to scope out the radio, and I can’t do that with Saint breathing down my throat.
“Let’s go outside.”
It’s a touch scary he can read me so well, but I suppose he’s at an advantage. He can see my face after all.
Mark stops shoveling the eggs into his mouth as I reach for my plate. His ravenous eyes instantly drop to the front of my dress as the scooped neckline reveals a little too much cleavage when bending low. I feel disgusting, like my mom’s words are true when I play on his attraction and reach forward for my fork.
It’s innocent enough, but I know it has the desired effect when Mark’s tongue sweeps along his bottom lip. His smell alone has me wanting to gag, but I smile shyly, hoping to feign innocence and submission.
The other Russian just continues to inhale his food, not at all affected by me.
I wait for Saint to lead the way with my eyes cast downward. When I hear his heavy boots march up the stairs, I follow, ensuring to brush Mark gently with my shoulder on the way out. I know I’m playing with fire, but Saint will eventually have to sleep. I can only hope when that happens, Mark is awake. I will then make up some excuse as to why I need to go upstairs.
It’s weak, but it’s all I have.
The sun feels wonderful against my skin, and I pause for a moment, closing my eyes and tipping my chin upward to savor the feeling as I don’t know when I will experience it again. My growling stomach interrupts my basking, so I open my eyes. Saint is sitting on the white chest near the helm. I try my best to remain unaffected, but it’s difficult to when that radio is within reach.
