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She calls after me but I don’t stop or look back. I storm past the one who’s been following me and it’s all my will to not punch him in the face. I slam the door open and leave the Beetle.
32
NIYAH
Ichange my mind. I can’t leave him high and dry. Besides I have a job to do here. A job that is more important than any feelings I might have for him, real or imagined. Greta wouldn’t stop because the going got hard and I’m not going to either.
I’ll stay and deal with these feelings for him. Besides, maybe they’re real. I mean, they could be, right? Maybe, just maybe, he does like me. He has done a lot of nice things for me. A lot of really great food. If nothing else I’d sure miss that if I returned to the Zmaj compound. The food there is better than we had in the bunker but there is really no comparison with what he creates. His food is almost like art.
Okay. Good. I’m staying. That’s it. Decision made.
Except. It’s going to be awkward. I could gather information and leave. I already know a lot. And it’s really dangerous. I mean, a lot worse than I think any of us expected. No one could blame me for bailing out. Could they?
Unless he likes me. What if he does? It could be. Like the way that he always serves me food first and waits until I try it before he eats. And he gave me his bed. That’s nice. He didn’t have to do that.
He killed for me. Does it get any more real than that?
Yeah, but did he? For me?
There is no denying his sense of honor. He is a man with a code that he lives by which could be the only reason that he intervened with the Maulavi. I’ve been threatened with rape more than once by those monsters and every time they have, he’s intervened. Maybe it’s his honor or some past trauma that makes him react like that. It could, conceivably, have nothing to do with me in the slightest.
But if it does…
He likes me. If it does. But does it?
I leap to my feet and go to the kitchen. I have got to stop this stupid spiral my thoughts are stuck in. Talking myself into one conclusion and then rushing right ahead to convince myself that one was totally wrong.
I dig through the cabinets until I remember at last where he keeps the alcohol. I exclaim aloud when I uncover it and then set the bottle on the table. I get a glass, which I remembered where they were, and set it down. The stopper in the bottle doesn’t want to give way. I strain, twist, pull, tug, then glare but it’s barely moving. He always makes it look so freaking easy.
I set the bottle down, massage the soreness out of my hands, and reach to try again. As my fingers close around the bottle’s neck someone knocks on the door.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
The knock comes again. At least it’s a normal knock. Whoever is there isn’t trying to tear down the door with their fist. That does nothing to calm the butterflies dancing in my stomach or the adrenaline pumping through my body and making me feel like my nerves are on fire.
Every damn time he leaves. Seriously. What is up with this?
Another knock. Gentle, but not going away. My throat is too dry and clenched too tight to be able to get a word out.
I let go of the bottle and turn towards the door. I don’t know if I’m actually moving in slow motion or if it only feels like it. I have that weird sensation where it feels like the air around me has turned to molasses and every step I make the atmosphere is trying to keep me from doing it. I close my eyes, work my mouth until there is some moisture, swallow, then open my eyes. Okay. I’ve got this.
What if it’s a Maulavi? Again?
If it is or isn’t, nothing’s going to change. It will be what it will be, so to say. I take another step towards the door, sliding my foot across the floor. The door comes closer. My heart beats faster. Another step. Cold sweat trickles down my back. The knock comes again and I freeze, too scared to move.
I’m panting. I force another step. My hand reaches for the lock then I stop and reconsider. Instead, I move close to the door.
“Who is it?” I ask.
The person on the other side barks, or it sounds like a bark, but I’m pretty sure it’s the Urr’ki language.
“I’m sorry, do you speak Zmaj?”
“Delivery,” a voice says.
Delivery? What?
Now my thoughts are spinning for an entirely new reason. Urr’ki have delivery?
