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She remains leaning on the table, breath coming in rapid huffs. She trembles she is so angry. I want, with all my broken heart, to take her in my arms and give her comfort. No matter that though for I am a smart enough male to know that is absolutely the worst thing I could do.
“He did,” I say softly, shaking my head. “He did.”
She collapses into the chair, dropping her head onto her arms and hiding her face. I hear her sobbing and see her shaking with the force of her fear and grief. I look up at the ceiling.
Tajss help me. What do I do?
12
NIYAH
Greta wouldn’t be crying. She’d do something. Take action.
I’m not her. And all my inadequacies pile in and overwhelm me. I’m a prisoner. Why this bothers me so much I have no idea. I freaking volunteered to be captured, what did I think they would look at me as? A welcome guest?
Yet I can’t stop the tears. It didn’t start when the Maulavi said it. That was scary, terrifying, but he called me prisoner and it didn’t hit me like this. It didn’t hurt. This hurts. What’s the difference?
Because he said it. The one you thought was protecting you. Who did protect me.
And that is it. I thought Bhoja was my protector. My unintentional knight in shining armor so to speak. He said it and all those half-formed, unrealized delusions shattered. He’s not my protector he’s my prison guard.
The ache in my chest hurts so much that I don’t know if I can survive it. It throbs and pulses and doesn’t stop. My tears run their course but the pain remains. Untainted by the ending of grief, lying heavy on my heart and leaving nothing but agony in its wake.
“Niyah,” Bhoja says.
I should look up but my head is too heavy. It’s too much effort and to what end? So I can look into the eyes of my captor? So I can make him feel better? What do I care about his feelings?
“What?” I ask, voice muffled by my hair and arms but I don’t care. Let him figure it out. Or don’t.
“Niyah, I…” he trails off leaving me hanging.
Which is the worst damn thing he could do. I hear him breathing. Feel him staring at the top of my head. I wait but he doesn’t finish. Whatever thought he has in his head is left unspoken and now I want to know.
I wait as long as I can stand it before I lift my head. I must look like a mess. My eyes feel puffy and every time I cry I know it makes my face pale and pasty. Not an appealing look in the slightest and definitely not the way I want him to see me.
I thought we had something. A spark. How wrong I was.
“What?” I ask, blinking to clear my blurry vision.
He shakes his head. His lips move but no sound emerges. He clears his throat and leans in a little closer.
“This is the world,” he says, shaking his head.
“It doesn’t have to be,” I counter.
He frowns deep enough that his tusks touch his nose.
“You make no sense,” he says, then he rubs the back of his head. “This is what is. Wish it or not, this world is coming to an end. The next is coming whether we will it or not.”
“No,” I say, firmly, sitting fully up and meeting his eyes. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t have to be this way. It can change.”
“Bah,” he says, waving a hand between us. “We do not decide what is.”
“We can decide to make changes,” I argue. “You like the way your people are living? You really look at me as a prisoner?” He opens his mouth to say something but I see a spark in his eye and I leap on it. “Nothing more?”
His mouth snaps shut and his eyes narrow as he drops them from mine to stare at the table. He swallows and his hands flex into fists, clenching and unclenching.
“It is my duty,” he says, his voice low and rumbly, eyes on the table.
