Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eden is a home.

It is a person. A place. A community

It is the scent of old musty books, and the quiet peace before the rising dawn.

You work by candlelight in the silent hours, an open book resting on the table in front of you. Wearing gloves to protect it, you carefully turn the page, gaze scanning the faded lettering. Most of it is legible, and with some time and care, you’ll be able to replicate it on new paper with fresh ink.

Preservation.

Not of your mortal life and those that live in your community, but the preservation of humanity, culture, and human history. Five years since the world fell apart, and yet you remain, carrying on with purpose, restoring books, transcribing those that are close to falling apart, and keeping records of the years that came before.

It is enjoyable, fulfilling work but you serve a greater need to your community. Here, within your sanctuary of several hundred people, you provide them entertainment and education. The children come to you for picture books and story time, and the adults visit when they need an escape.

You are but one piece of a large whole.

“What are you doing here so early?”

You glance up, smiling at your assistant. “Could ask the same,” you laugh, pushing back from the table. Standing, you remove your gloves and set them next to the book.

Sam, your archiving assistant yawns. “Thought I’d get here early since you’re going out today with Zac and his group.” They rub at their eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the gate already?”

“Shit,” you mutter, checking the mechanical clock hanging on the wall. Sam is right. You should be at the gate right now. “Double shit,” you groan.

Sam laughs and reaches for their own gloves. “I’ll handle this.” Putting them on, Sam settles into your chair. “We doing a refurb on this?”

“No,” you say, running around the room, grabbing your jacket and backpack. “Some of the pages are too faded. Binding is also bust.”

“Transcribe then,” murmurs Sam, gently closing the book to inspect the integrity of the cover. “Where are you going again?”

“Zac mentioned a small town they scoped out. No activity.” You walk over to Sam, yanking your jacket on. “He said there’s a library.”

Sam’s head pops up. “Seriously?”

You nod excitedly. “Said the place was locked up tight. Windows still intact.”

“Untouched?” asks Sam, eyebrows rising in surprise. You nod. Sam whistles lowly. “What a fucking find.”

“I know!” you exclaim. “Could really use some encyclopedias.”

“And dictionaries,” adds Sam longingly.

Tugging on the front of your jacket and then smoothing the front, you zip it up. “Zac said I can bring back as much as I want.”

“Did he really?” Sam shakes their head and opens the front cover of the book. “That man is sweet on you.”

“Which is why I take advantage,” you giggle.

Sam bursts out laughing. “Go. They’ll leave you behind.”

With a grin on your face and a hop to your step, you wave at Sam before heading out the side door and into the early morning. The sun is just starting to rise. Most people are still asleep or starting their day. You walk by the communal buildings where the earliest risers are preparing breakfast. You sigh when you get a whiff of what they’re cooking, wishing you could snag a meal before departing.

As you approach the gate, Zac raises his hand in greeting.

“Have I held everyone up?” you ask tentatively, glancing around.

“Not at all. Still loading up a few things. Your timing is perfect.” Zac smiles, and though you find him pleasant, nothing stirs within you. There is no lust or even romantic interest.

You observe the line of cars queued at the gate. Usually there are only one or two, but there are at least ten vehicles here including the salvaged U-Haul. “Taking a whole convoy?”

“We’re going to need it.”

“For a small town?”

Zac chuckles. “I’m dropping you off at the library. Ben will come with you.”

“I get a security detail?” you ask excitedly and Zac nods. “Fancy.”

Zac scratches at his neck, gaze roaming over the convoy. “There’s a car assembly plant a few miles outside the town. Gonna strip what we can. If things go well, we’ll come back.”

“No activity then?”

“None,” confirms Zac. “We’ve had a scouting team out there for the last two months. Not a soul has passed through.”

“That’s fortunate,” you murmur.

While your community has been largely untouched and unbothered by the outside world, there are still so many unknowns. There have been stragglers that have shown up, and while several have been accepted in and integrated, there are many more that have been turned away or shot on sight. Sometimes you think it cruel, but there are all sorts of horrors in the world now.

Ben walks around the front of the nearest car, and beams in your direction. “Hear I’m looking after you today,” he says, going in for a hug.

You accept it easily. Ben is the comedian of the community, always having a kind word and funny joke.

“And helping me haul books,” you add.

Ben winks in your direction and then turns to Zac. “We’re ready.”

Zac nods. “Load up!” he shouts.

Everyone around you heads to their designated vehicle. Engines roar and car doors slam. You follow Ben, hopping into a dusty Jeep Wrangler.

It’s several hours of open road and clear weather.

You and Ben pass the time by singing songs and playing car games. It’s a good distraction until Zac comes on over the radio and tells Ben their exit is coming up. The rest of the convoy drives on as Ben cuts away to take an exit ramp. A few more minutes and he’s coming to a stop just on the edge of town, parking the Jeep amongst a cluster of trees. The vehicle is completely hidden.

“Ready?” he asks, sliding the keys into his pocket.

“Backpack? Check. Gun? Check. Foldable wagon? Check.”

Ben blows raspberries. “Can’t forget the foldable wagon.”

You playfully smack him on the arm. “You want to haul all those books back yourself.”

“No thank you,” he mutters.

The walk is pleasant, but overall silent. Ben carries an M4AI. The arsenal back home is massive, and whenever there are trips outside the compound, the military-grade weapons come out. He keeps his head on a swivel, but other than the occasional animal sounds and the rustling of leaves, all is quiet.

“Here it is,” sighs Ben, extending one arm toward a stand-alone building at the corner of an intersection.

The library isn’t overly big. If anything, it’s what you’d expect from a small town.

“Now I know you’re excited,” he begins, slightly leaning in your direction. “But you stay close. We’re entering from the back.”

All you can do is nod eagerly, words escaping you. It’s been almost six years since you’ve been inside a library. This is a treat. It takes an insane amount of self-control to not skip all the way to the back of the building.

While the front of the building faces the intersection, behind the library is a small parking lot and two dumpsters. Ben does a slow sweep of the lot as the two of you walk toward the employee entrance. Satisfied that nothing and no one is around, Ben lowers his gun. Removing his backpack, he sets it on the ground, and rummages around inside before withdrawing lockpicks.

Adrenaline surges within you.

A few wiggles.

And then—

Click.

Grinning like an idiot, Ben slips the lockpicks into his backpack and puts it on. Grabbing his gun, he presses himself to the brick wall. Slowly, Ben opens the door with the tip of the rifle. It gives under his touch easily, the hinges even silent as the door swings inwards.

“Draw your weapon,” whispers Ben. “We need to do a sweep first.” As you reach for your Glock, Ben shakes his head. “And leave the damn wagon.”

Leaning the foldable wagon against the wall, you remove your gun from its holster. Ben enters and you follow, shifting your body to watch for anything coming up behind you. It’s a slow sweep. Starting along the wall, the two of you walk the perimeter, checking the back offices, and then finally the center-most area.

Ben comes to a stop near a collection of dusty chairs. Lowering his gun, he sighs with relief. “It’s clear.” He turns in your direction. “I’ll be keeping a lookout at the door. If anything happens, you come directly to me.”

“Got it,” you say with a mock salute.

Ben rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “And don’t drag those books along because I know you will. Leave them.”

You stare him down but Ben doesn’t budge, matching your stare with one of his own. “I mean it. If someone or something comes barreling through the front doors, you fucking run to me. Understood?”

“Sure. Got it. Understood.”

Ben checks his watch. “We have a few hours before we’re expected back at the meet point. Take your time.” He starts to walk away, and then abruptly pivots. “Wife packed a few sandwiches. Promise I’ll share.”

You snort and wave him off. “Bring me my wagon, Ben.”

“On it,” he calls over his shoulder.

As his footfalls recede, you linger in the quiet, dusty library, taking in the significance of the moment. Six years since you’ve stood inside an actual library. Five years since the world fell apart but a year before, third places were quickly disappearing. No one could spend money when wages were low and all the government’s resources were going toward the war effort. Libraries and free spaces shuttered first, losing all their funding.

This place is precious. Special. A rare opportunity.

Of all the books in your community’s collection, they’ve all come to you by the way of others, collected on routine trips and scavenging missions like today. Since stepping inside the walls you now call home, this is the first time you’ve left it. All the stories you receive of the outside world come from the mouths of those who witness it firsthand.

Like a jubilant child, you want to run around—to touch everything. The tips of your fingers buzz with an incessant itch. But you don’t dare remove anything from the shelves. Resisting is almost physically painful as you float through the aisles, taking it all in. To remove a book off the shelf, to open it up, the smell it and feel it would be paradise.

But you know better. You do.

Disturbing them without the right tools and care might cause damage or undo exposure. What you can do is look, to read the spines, and consider your options. Once you know what you want, you’ll drag your little wagon behind you and go about taking the books you want off the shelves.

Ben does leave you alone, and you’re left to wander.

Each step is light but purposeful as you move about the space. You think of everyone back home, of their likes and dislikes, of their needs and wants. More picture books would be helpful as well as some young adult novels. Some of the women have been asking for romance and few of the older folks would like some historical nonfiction.

“Where are you?” you mutter, digging around in your jacket pockets.

Crumpled paper brushes against your fingers. Withdrawing it, you smooth it out as best you can. Using the little light available to read your scribbled penmanship, you pull the wagon behind you, mentally reordering your notes by priority.

Sam wants dictionaries, and you need to grab a set of encyclopedias. Finding the “Reference” section, you survey all your options. Dictionaries and an encyclopedia set are a must, but you also consider the selections of atlases and then the thesaurus collection. The school could really use those resources, and your wagon is large enough to accommodate a few last-minute additions.

Kneeling, you admire the different editions of encyclopedias. Some appear a little worn but otherwise fine. Even though this place hasn’t had power or temperature control in five years, the place was sealed and untouched until you and Ben. It’s likely that everything inside is fine, and all you and Sam will need to do is a rebinding.

You’re completely absorbed, so focused on the tomes in front of you, that the whisper of your name has you spinning around and reaching for your gun.

Ben has his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. A snarky remark sizzles on your tongue. Ben brings a finger to his mouth in a gesture of silence. Whatever you were going to say dissolves, leaving behind an acrid aftertaste.

Slowly, you swivel your head from side to side but see nothing.

Ben shifts closer, leans in, a glint of fear in his eyes.

“There are people outside,” he whispers.

That’s when you hear it. Distantly, you hear a car door slam, and a muffled shout. The marrow in your bones becomes ice. There are people. There shouldn’t be people.

You swallow, mouth becoming dry. “How many?”

Ben shrugs. “Not sure. But there’s two groups.”

“Two—” You shake your head slightly as that’ll clear your racing thoughts. “What do you mean two groups?”

Ben’s mouth turns downward. It’s an I’m sorry but even that is loaded.

We’re not getting out of this.

There’s a distant hoot of laughter, and then the breaking of glass as if someone’s thrown a beer bottle. It’s still far enough away that you cling to that one comfort. But if they stick around, they might come sniffing. If that happens, you and Ben will be cornered.

Ben nods his head in the direction of the front of the library. Staying low, the two of creep toward the front of the building. There are two sets of double doors. The first set open up into the library and the secondary set of doors lead directly outside. Sandwiched between them is a small atrium. Above the doors are massive windows that bring in natural light.

Out front in the intersection are several beaten up trucks. From what you can see, it’s all men, at least a dozen or two in total. They look haggard. Mean.

“Is that them?” you ask softly.

Ben doesn’t look back at you as he answers. “Just the one. These guys came in loud.” Ben shifts slightly to glance over his shoulder at you. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”

“Lost in my books.” Ben snorts, and returns his attention to the glass doors. “What about the second group?” you ask tentatively. “Our people?”

Ben eases back a bit. He sits down on the floor, checking over his rifle. “No. Not sure who they are.” He licks his lips, gaze focused on the gun. “They’re all in black. Militarized by the look of them. Organized.”

Two groups. Two different groups.

Ben removes the clip and checks the cartridge. “Only noticed them when one of these guys went around back.” He gestures toward the men directly outside the front doors. “Fucker came out of nowhere and knifed him. Dragged his body away too.”

“Who are they?”

Ben shrugs and rummages in his backpack for a new clip. “No fucking idea. The ones out front might be marauders or slavers or—”

He pauses, gaze growing distant.

“Or what, Ben?” you prompt.

He doesn’t answer, only readies the rifle. “All I know is we need to go.”

All this work, all this effort, suddenly gone.

Your shoulders sag as the reality of the situation sets in. “I have to leave the books. Don’t I?”

“Afraid so,” replies Ben. But he smiles, and though he’s trying, you see the strain. “Next time I’ll make sure to bring you and Sam some books.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he affirms. “Let’s go.”

At the back door, you withdraw your Glock, posting up beside Ben. He cracks it open. Pauses. Opens it a little wider. He carefully sticks a small hand mirror out the opening. He turns it left then right then back again.

“Clear” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

He exits slowly, and then gestures with his hand. You step outside, squinting slightly as your eyes adjust to the light. Ben starts to cross the parking lot, heading for the exit furthest from the intersection.

The voices of the men are louder out here. A tiny bubble of panic blooms. Then simmers. Then boils.

There is no one around. No one. And yet—

A loud crack splits the air. The wall next to Ben explodes, tiny fragments of debris bursting outward. Ben stumbles backward. He grabs for you. And tugs.

You’re yanked to the side, and then spun around.

Time seems to slow, and yet everything occurs so quickly you don’t entirely comprehend what’s happened until Ben shoves the two of you behind a nearby dumpster.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe. “Ben. We—”

Horror floods your lungs.

Blood.

Everything. Dripping from tiny holes in Ben’s body.

“Oh my god. Ben.”

You reach for him, but there are so many impact points. Too many.

“Go,” he gasps. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

As the words leave your mouth, a barrage of bullets bite into the wall directly over your head.

“Here,” he rasps, handing you the keys to the Jeep. “Leave me and fucking run. I’ll distract them.”

Shouting breaks out nearby followed by what seems like a never-ending deluge of gunfire.

Your eyes burn. “You promised me books.”

He smiles, and there’s more red than white. “You know I always deliver on my promises.”

With a groan that’s more a cry of pain, Ben stands and reloads with a new clip.

“Go,” he whispers just as he steps out from around the dumpster, gun firing.

You turn. Take off. Gunfire follows.

It comes from everywhere, but you don’t falter, don’t pause to check your surroundings. You’re not a raging bull or an agile cheetah. You are pure frenzy, pure panic, like a rabbit running from fox teeth.

“Fucking grab her!” someone yells. “Grab her!”

You don’t know if it’s the marauders or the men all in black, but there is little reason to consider who.

Survival is paramount. Survival is eternal.

In a world like this, survival is lifeblood.

It is everything.

With lungs burning and muscles screaming, you aim for the houses, knowing you can lose them if you scuttle through the overgrown backyards.

The blow comes out of nowhere.

You witness a brief taste of freedom.

And then it’s yanked right from under you.

A body barrels into you, knocking you sideways. The ground comes up fast. You throw up your arms to protect your head and face. It cushions but protects little else. You hit hard.

“Come here,” growls a male voice. Hands are on you. Grabbing. Twisting. “Let me get a good look at you.”

You kick out. Throw your fists in all directions.

“Stop your fussing.”

A quick blow to the face and you’re circling, everything becoming temporarily blurry as the person atop you brings your vision skyward.

 “Look at you,” he laughs.

It’s one of the marauders. He smiles down at you, teeth brown and grey from decay.

“Pretty thing. Gonna look cute choking on my—”

His nefarious smile drops as the rest of him stiffens. You freeze, staring up in shock as you try to figure out what’s happened. It’s a slow unfolding. A trickle. Blood begins to pool in his mouth and then it drip drip drips onto your face.

With a soft cry, you wiggle out from under him as he tips over, falling into the grass. Scrambling backward, you start to push up onto your knees, muscles poised to keep moving.

“Don’t move.” A gun barrel presses into the back of your head. It’s still warm. “Get up.”

A pair of black boots come into view. Your gaze slowly ascends. Black boots give way to black pants to a black bullet proof vest to a black balaclava. The only part of him you can see are his eyes.

Someone grabs the back of your neck. It’s a harsh hold, and you’re yanked to your feet. You twist your neck and find another man, this one almost identical to the one in front of you. This is the other group Ben spotted, the ones tracking the marauders.

The one holding your neck squeezes and the other reaches for you. “Fucking move and I’ll shoot you.”

You remain perfectly still—perfectly silent as he pats you down. The knife in your boot is confiscated along with your Glock. When they snatch the Jeep keys, you instinctually reach to take them back.

“Told you not to fucking move.”

The man slaps your hand down and you feel the muzzle return to your head.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

He stares you down for a long moment. It gives you an opportunity to observe him, and his companion. They both wear identical all-black tactical even down to the patches attached to their biceps. The bottom one you recognize. Both American flags. The one above it is eerily similar but you can’t entirely place it. It’s an azimuthal projection of the earth but a top view from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches.

The stranger's gaze shifts to just above you. He jerks his head, and then you’re shoved forward without warning. With each of them holding an arm, you’re half-dragged back to the intersection the marauders were at.

While their rusty trucks are still there, they aren’t alone. Four armored trucks are parked in a semi-circle around the marauders’ cars. More men in all-black tactical gear prowl the area. Of the first group to arrive, those that aren’t dead have been zip tied and lined up in a row on their stomachs, faces pressed into the asphalt.

When one of them moves, they’re kicked until they fall back into compliance.

“Found this one out by the houses,” says the man holding onto your left arm.

Soldiers. They have to be. This isn’t some ragtag group. They wear uniforms, all of which are perfectly maintained. Even the armored trucks are in decent condition.

A small trio of them standing nearby turn.

The centermost soldier speaks. “A woman?” His surprise is clear. And like the two men who hold you, this man too has an American flag.

He nods toward the group of facedown marauders. “These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.”

Breeders.

You almost snarl, bite back with an insult. But you keep your mouth shut. Their intentions are unclear, and you’re without a weapon. Entirely powerless.

Survival. Always survival.

He takes a few steps forward, approaching you, gaze assessing. Behind the balaclava, he gives you a once over. “Looks healthy,” he observers. Without warning, he grabs your face. You jerk back, and he clucks his tongue. “Stop moving.”

Turning your face to the left and then to the right, the middle of his brow creases. “Open your mouth.”

You glower, and don’t comply.

He grabs your nose, shutting off your air. You gasp, mouth opening.

“Has all her teeth,” he announces, dropping his hand. “Can’t be one of theirs.”

“We need to show the Lieutenant,” says the soldier to your right.

The man before you stares, and keeps staring. “Do we?”

You don’t like the implication.

“What’s this?”

A deep, masculine voice cuts through the air. It is accented. British. Every head turns, and the soldiers straighten, shoulders back and heads held high.

The man holding your left arm speaks up. “Found her running toward the houses, Lieutenant.”

All the soldiers wear plain black balaclavas. Simple. Straightforward. But the man who steps into view has a skull face stitched into his. A fucking skull.

Instead of an American flag, it's a Union Jack.

His brown eyes behind the mask narrow. “They don’t bring their women out.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Are their numbers that low?”

“With how we’ve been picking them off I wouldn’t be surprised.”

They bicker back and forth, arguing about you but not actually talking to you.

“I’m not with them,” you say, and they all go silent.

Skull Face glowers. “You’re not?”

“I was running from them.” You glance between the soldiers who shot the man. “They’ll tell you. They’re the ones that shot him.”

Skull Face appears unmoved. “Doesn’t mean you’re not with them.”

You laugh, and it sounds a bit hysterical. “Why would I be fucking running if I were with them? Wouldn’t I be shooting back at you?”

“No,” he replies flatly. “If you were with them, you’d be bloody running from them. Not shooting at us.”

“She has to be with them. There’s no one else here.” The man who speaks up this time is directly to Skull Face’s right. The accent is different. Scottish.

“I came with one other. Those men shot at us.”

Ben. Oh. Sweet Ben.

“And where are they?” asks Skull Face.

You swallow, knowing the truth. “Behind the library. Parking lot. Near the dumpster.”

Skull Face locks gazes with another solider and nods. Two men break off, heading in that direction. He returns his attention to you. “Who are these men?”

“What?” you ask, perplexed.

“These men.” He points to the facedown marauders. “Who are they?”

These men are strangers to you. “Slavers?” When no one confirms or denies, you guess again. “Cannibals?”

“She’s playing dumb,” mutters the Scots.

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Skull Face.  “Who are they? What name do they go by? It’s an easy question. Everyone knows it.”

You shake your head. “I—I don’t know.”

Lieutenant Skull Face leans in, lowering his voice. “If you don’t answer truthfully, you and I can have an extended chat in the back of one of these trucks.”

“She had these.” The Jeep keys are tossed, and he catches them without looking. “And this.” The Glock is presented.

Soap takes the Glock. He turns it over. “They don’t give their women weapons, Ghost.”

So, Skull Face is named Ghost. Fitting.

“No,” he agrees. “Makes it easier for them to fight back.”

The very idea sobers you.

“Who are they?” you ask, feeling safe enough to do so.

Ghost glances up from the car keys. “Your worst fucking nightmare.”

“Lieutenant!” The two men that left for the library return. Jogging forward, they speak in low voices.

Ben is not with them. Ben is—

Ghost nods and steps back. “We’re taking her with us.” The two men holding onto your arms let go and Ghost immediately grabs hold of your shoulder, pulling you forward.

“Pick three of these bastards at random,” he announces, gesturing toward the facedown men. “Put them in Delta truck. Shoot the rest.”

Ghost’s hand at your shoulder slides up, grasping the back of your neck. He leans in close—so close you can pick out the little flecks of gold in his brown irises.

“You’re riding with me.”

Chapter Text

The scream is a gunshot.

You flinch. Turn away. Cover your mouth with your hand.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.

“You fucking motherfucker! I’m gonna fucking kill you! You—”

The man’s words are swallowed up by the echoing pop of a pistol unloading. Ghost yanks on your arm, but you’re frozen like a rabbit sensing a predator. Even after the world fell apart, you witnessed so much, but seeing such brutal execution twists your insides like tangled barbed wire.

“Walk,” Ghost commands, but your legs are unmovable like Redwood trees.

You’re sinking. The ground is opening up.

Danger. Danger.

“Hey.”

Another crack, followed by begging.

“Look at me.” There are large hands on your shoulders. Squeezing. Urging. “Look at me.”

Ghost’s voice is a firm directive, and you snap to attention. Your gaze, once distant, locks with his. Behind the mask are his eyes—a whiskey brown with gold flecks crowned by long, pale eyelashes.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he soothes, hands sliding away from your shoulders to rest against your ears.

He presses, silencing the world. When the next gunshot goes off, you hardly hear it. Just a muffled blip amongst the quiet. With every inhale and subsequent exhale, the buzzing rush of adrenaline softens, then crashes. It’s just a shiver of release. A dismissive wave of the hand.

And Ghost never looks away. Not once.

Focused and sharp, you’re unable to look away from Ghost’s intensity. Like a roiling river, his eye contact swallows you up, drowning you in its chaos. It allows you a moment to simply observe the man before you, to study what you can of his face. It isn’t much, just blackish smudges around the eyes and a prominent brow.

A curiosity blooms where there was no soil.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t realize the gunshots have stopped until Ghost drops his hands.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you gasp, unsure of why you’ve just apologized to him.

Ghost is impassive. Unresponsive. He simply stares, arms at his sides, and that attention is almost worse than the gunshots. It is unnerving—but not in the creeping sense of nefarious interest. He may be silent, but in his silence, there is a question.

A curiosity. Blooming.

But whatever you’ve witnessed quickly passes.

Ghost is grabbing hold of your upper arm, tugging you forward. This time your legs surrender, moving with him but struggling to keep up with his long strides.

You pass one armored truck. Then another.

“Wait,” you say, but it’s a whisper lost to the breeze.

We’re taking her with us.

“Wait,” and this time it’s louder. It carries on the wind.

Survival. Survival is paramount. And this stranger is leading you to unknown places, likely to never return you to where you come from.

Digging your feet in, you attempt to come to a stop. Ghost hardly faulters. His strength overpowers, and you nearly topple forward to eat pavement.

“Wait!”

With a growl, Ghost whirls on you. “We’re on a tight schedule, love. Keep up.”

Another tug, this one not an annoyance but a brief bite of pain. Instinct flares, and you lash out, forming a fist. It lands against his chest, striking just to the right of his left shoulder.

It’s a dumb fucking move.

Ghost shoves you up against the side of one of the armored trucks, caging you between him and the metal exterior. “Want my attention that bad? Well, love. You’ve got it.” His chest heaves as if this one interaction is taking all his stamina.

“Take your fucking hands off me,” you growl, placing both hands flat on his chest and shoving with all your strength.

Ghost grunts, and shoves you right back, pinning you to the vehicle. “Behave,” he murmurs.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

You struggle against him, working your shoulders back and forth to shake off his hold. It’s fruitless. Pathetic. Lieutenant Skull Face is stronger—weight unyielding.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit at him, just because it feels good.

Ghost ignores your outburst. “You’re coming back with us. Stop your bloody fussing.”

He talks to you like you’re a small child in need of a good scolding. It’s infuriating. You might be weaponless and without leverage, but the first thing you learned when defending yourself in a world like this is to never allow anyone to take you to a secondary location. Fight like hell when you can, and survive.

But fighting doesn’t always mean physical.

“I mean nothing to you. Just leave me,” you reply, adding a slight quiver to your voice.

Negotiating. Begging. It might work with him.

“That’s not an option.”

From his tone, it’s clear that Ghost is over this conversation. Your window is closing. Soon, each of these men will turn their attention to the trucks, which means they’ll be focused on you. If you want to escape, you need to escape now.

Ghost eases his hold, drawing back to take you with him.

You give one final attempt before you start swinging.

Grasping the back of his neck, you drag him back to you. There is no mouth for you to kiss, so you press your lips to where you believe his might be. You aim for just above the skull teeth. The material of the mask is surprisingly smooth. With your leverage of your hand at the back of his neck, you lightly rock your hips in a provocative gesture, hooking your leg up slightly to imitate grinding.

Ghost stiffens, clearly confused and startled by your actions. It lasts only a few fleeting seconds, and then he softens, his hands falling to your hips.

Sweet victory sings in your veins.

Men are all the same.

All you have to do is convince him to go to one of these vehicles alone. Climb on top if you can, but make do if you’re under him. Allow him a few thrusts. Moan a bit to make him think you want this. Then go for the fucking throat.

Ghost’s hands squeeze your hips, but it’s not to pull you closer. He starts to push you away. Rejecting. He’s rejecting you.

“Tempting offer,” he murmurs. “But we’re on a schedule.”

No. Fucking no.

This is your chance. Your one chance.

The world tilts, and you switch gears.

With a quick upward motion, you drive your knee into Ghost’s groin, nailing him where his pelvis meets his thigh.

“Fucking hell,” he coughs, staggering to the side, bending over in pain.

You dip beneath his arm, dashing toward the connecting street. The Jeep keys are lost to you, and you have no gun, but if you run fast enough, and lose them amongst the houses, you might have a chance to sneak back to the Jeep undetected and hotwire it home.

Legs pumping, you dash past the armored truck.

Freedom is close. It is calling out to you. Reaching—

Large, muscled arms wrap around you, hauling you backward. They don’t throw you to ground, but restrain you, holding you firmly against a solid body.

Fuck it. Fuck this.

It’s time for fists and teeth and claws.

Kicking and screaming, you raise hell. An arm loosens. Bending it, you bring your elbow down into his shoulder.

Ghost grunts, grasps your wrist, and yanks. He twists you around, seizing both of your arms, pinning them behind your back.

You immediately go limp.

It almost works.

Ghost staggers but recovers enough to ease into the movement, using the momentum to lift you up and into his arms.

Arms now free, you snarl, swiping at him with an open palm. Ghost promptly drops you.

You hit the ground. Hard.

With a groan, you push up from the pavement with the intent to flee. A boot presses against your back, and forces you down until you’re flat on your stomach. Seconds later and you’re zip-tied.

“That’s better,” grumbles Ghost.

Grabbing you by your forearms, he lifts you back onto your feet.

A slurry of profanities leaves your lips. “Bastard! Fucking bastard! Motherfucker! Cock sucking motherfucking bastard!”

You throw your body weight around, too, but Ghost remains firm, dragging you along toward the cluster of vehicles.

“You—you—shit eating…tit zit!”

Ghost chuckles. “Creative,” he muses like he appreciates it.

His amused demeanor only deflates your hope, melting you down until you decide it’s best to beg, to see if this man will show even a hint of mercy.

“Please,” you exhale, and you hate how desperate you sound. “Please. Just—just let me go.”

Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. Keeping his gaze forward, Ghost hauls you over to a Humvee. He opens the rear passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods. “Or I’ll toss you in.”

“Please,” you beg. “Please listen.”

“Wrong answer.”

With a quick bend of the knees, Ghost lifts you off the ground and fulfills his threat. You bounce on the seat and almost topple onto the floor.

This is it. There is no going back. You’re being taken elsewhere, and there is little you can do. Everything going forward has to be about you, and what you have to do to survive.

But then you remember Ben, and how his body is just…there. Discarded.

As Ghost starts to turn away, you lean forward, knowing that what you’re about to ask will likely be ignored.

“You have to bring him with us. Please.”

Ghost has no reason to speak to you—to entertain what you’ve just said. You expect him to slam the door in your face, to give you his back.

“Bring who?” replies Ghost. He sounds genuinely curious, and his body language isn’t hostile. He has one hand on the handle of the door and the other resting against the side of the Humvee.

“Ben. We can’t leave him here. It’s not right.”

Behind the balaclava, his gaze narrows. “Is that who you were with?” You nod. Ghost briefly glances over his shoulder and then turns his gaze back to you. “Were you his?”

Were you his? Is that jealously? Does Ghost feel threatened by a dead man?

“No,” you laugh softly. “No. But…”

“But what?” he prompts.

“He has—had a wife. Two daughters.” You pause, remembering how the two girls had cornered you during community movie night, listing all the books they wanted you to find. “People loved him. They’ll want closure.”

You hate these moments of silence, of Ghost simply staring at you before he answers.

“I can’t bring him with us,” he finally says.

“Then leave him somewhere where they’ll find him,” you urge. “Please.”

Ghost’s demeanor shifts. His hand falls away from the side of the vehicle. “You came from a bigger group?”

“Does that matter?”

Ghost shakes his head in annoyance. “It fucking bloody well matters.”

“They won’t come after you,” you insist. “They aren’t expecting us for hours. You’ll be long gone before they come looking.”

“You could be lying to me.”

Anger flares in your chest. You need him to understand. “I just want Ben to go home to his family. They deserve it!”

Ghost sighs, and shakes his head. “Watch your feet,” he mutters.

You turn your legs at the last second as the Humvee door slams shut.

Left alone in the vehicle, the reality of your situation starts to settle, to seep into your bloodstream. It shoots straight to your brain, slithering in the folds, sinking in until the anxiety becomes a roar. Your breath comes and goes in quick gasps.

Panic. You’re panicking.

You’re fucking panicking.

Sliding across the seat, you reach with wiggling fingers for the handle. With wrists bound and no way to truly see what you’re doing, you’re forced to seek with your hands, praying that you’ll find the handle before Ghost arrives.

Sweat forms, making it difficult to hang on to anything.

“Come on,” you sob, knowing that this is it.

You find the handle. Tug.

Nothing. It doesn’t budge.

“No,” you gasp, yanking and yanking and yanking again. “No.”

He’s locked you in.

Desperation fuels you, motivating you to try the other door, and then kicking with both feet until your knees hurt and your thighs burn.

When Ghost returns to the Humvee, he finds you on your back, staring blankly.

There are no tears. No panic. Only numbness.

“Sit up,” he says, voice flat.

You obediently comply, shifting until you’re sitting upright. Ghost hops in, forcing you to slide all the way to the other side of the bench seat. He settles in, nearly squishing you between him and the door. There’s no room to move. The two of you are thigh to thigh—touching.

“Ready to bloody go.” You glance to the left at the familiar Scottish voice.

“You and me both, Soap,” grumbles Ghost, shifting even further to the right to accommodate the new addition to the backseat.

The driver and front passenger doors open simultaneously, two soldiers sliding in.

“Back to base, Lieutenant Riley?” asks the driver.

He lifts his arm, pressing a few buttons on an overhead panel. Sewn into his uniform is that same azimuthal projection of the earth from the North Pole. Beneath it are two olive branches. It’s so fucking familiar. It’s something from before—you know this, and yet you can’t place it. Beneath it is the flag of Mexico. Yet again, all in black. Leaning to the right, you peek over the seat. The soldier in the front passenger seat’s flag is three horizontal stripes but all in different shades of black or grey. There is no way for you to distinguish what country it belongs to.

“Affirmative,” answers Ghost.

Lieutenant Riley. That’s more of a name than Ghost. It’s a small piece, a fraction of information.

As you settle back against your seat, you don’t realize that Ghost has leaned toward you until he whispers in your ear. “It’s done.”

When you and Ben don’t show up, the rest of the convoy will come looking. They’ll find him, find the carnage, and wonder where you are. They’ll search, likely every building and street. Zac will certainly order it, and it’s entirely likely they’ll head back home only to return the next day, and perhaps even the next with the hope that you’ll show up.

But you’ll be long gone.

Elsewhere. Somewhere.

Ghost turns away from you, and doesn’t speak or even glance at you the rest of the trip, engaging in limited conversation with Soap.

You zone out. Stare at the landscape. Stomach turning sour.

The town disappears, giving way to trees and then highway.

It’s astounding how clear and uncongested the road is. You thought it strange when you and Ben were in the Jeep, how the roads themselves weren’t exactly maintained yet were somehow completely clear of cars. The few cars you did came across were pushed off to the side, allowing for a clear path. You dismissed it then, but you don’t dismiss it now as the Humvee carries you away from your life—your safety.

There is so little you know about the world as it currently exists.

After everything descended into chaos, you simply survived, weary of everyone, sometimes selling your body for food or shelter. Six years and you’ve been with the people are now, flourishing and unaware of everything happening beyond.

How much have Zac and the others kept from you? From the community? Or do they know about any of this at all?

These are the questions you ask yourself as time passes—as day becomes evenings becomes night.

The radio crackles. The soldier in the driver’s seat speaks.

“Base this is Bravo.”

A few seconds of silence. Then the radio comes alive.

“Received, Bravo. Go for Base.”

“Returning. Ten minutes.”

“Copy, Bravo. Returning.”

To the left of you, Soap groans. “Bloody fucking finally. Can stretch my damn legs. Take a piss.”

Ghost chuckles. “Eat a hot meal.”

Soap grunts in agreement. “Only thing missing is a warm cunt to stick my dick into.”

Ghost shakes his head as the two men up front laugh.

The soldier in the front passenger seat turns slightly, addressing Soap. “Might find a willing recruit,” he says, teasing.

“Bile yer heid,” laughs Soap, leaning forward to shove at him.

You remain still. Unmoving. Silent. They’re not thinking about you, and you don’t want to give them any reason to shift focus.

In the echoes of their laughter, the Humvee crests a hill. Through the windshield, bright spotlights appear, cutting through the dark. It’s difficult to see from where you sit. You lean to the left, brushing up against Ghost’s arm.

You draw back quickly, muttering an apology.

“You can look,” murmurs Ghost. His brow is soft as he leans towards Soap, giving you space to look out the windshield.

It’s a small gesture. A flicker of kindness.

Just like his hands over your ears. Or placing Ben in a place where someone will find him.

You fill the vacated space, gaze sweeping over the illuminated dark.

It’s a military base. Not makeshift or shuffled together, but a real one, like from the time before. Clean. Manufactured. Intimidating.

The Humvee rumbles up to the gates. The driver and guard exchange a few words before you hear a shout. A rattling reaches your ears, mimicking the stuttering of your heart. It’s enough to squash whatever hope you still cling to, smothering that ember until it’s snuffed out. Sinking back into your quiet, you turn inward, pressing yourself against the Humvee door until you feel smaller than dirt.

You keep your gaze downward, staring at your feet as the Humvee rolls through the gates. You don’t look up again until it comes to a stop.

“Stay here,” instructs Ghost as he slides out of the vehicle.

He shuts the door, turning away from you completely as if you’re not there at all. At some point in the trip, Soap lowered the window, and you’re able to shimmy over to the other side, listening in.

“Soap! Ghost!”

“Captain!”

Two strangers approach. One is a bit older, addressed as “captain” by Soap. The other is younger, handsome. They all clasp hands, greeting each other with a warmness that can only come from closeness and familiarity.

“Successful?”

“Brought three back for interrogation.”

“Good. And the rest?”

“Dead.”

“Good lad.”

Their voices drop slightly. Of what you can pick out from their conversation, it isn’t much. It’s just the newcomers’ names, Price and Gaz, and a brief mention about a secondary raid. Little else reaches your ears, and straining does nothing.

Leaning back against the seat, you tilt your head backward, staring up at the ceiling of the Humvee. Your arms ache, wrists sore, and you have to fucking pee.

“Who is that?”

The question is spoken loudly, closer than you thought from where the group was standing.

Your eyes snap open, body jolting up in the seat as you seek out the new voice. Ghost yanks the door open, reaching in to grasp your elbow. He helps you out and onto your feet. There is no room for resistance.

Outside the Humvee, you’re able to see the base more clearly. The convoy you were apart of is lined up in front of several low buildings. It’s late, but the base is still active, soldiers moving about as if it’s the middle of the day.

Soap laughs. “Go on, Lt.”

Ghost rolls his shoulders. “Found her while we were out.” Soap snorts and Ghost glares at him. “Running from the rubbish we eliminated.”

“She not with them?” asks Captain Price.

“No, Captain. She’s not with them.”

“The lass put up a fight though,” says Soap. “Kissed Lt here.”

“Hush, Soap,” mutters Ghost.

“When he rejected her, she kneed him in the groin.”

“Fucking hell,” laughs Gaz. “Really?”

Price’s mouth is a grim, thin line. “Why did you bring her?”

“The mandate.”

All four men sigh, but you have no idea what they’re talking about.

Captain Price nods. “Will she be any trouble?”

Ghost turns his attention on you. “Are you going to cause problems?”

You shake your head. “No. I’ll behave.”

Price affirms your answer with a quick smile. “Then the restraints aren’t necessary.”

Ghost makes a “turn around” gesture with his finger. You comply. There’s a quick tug, the pressure around your wrists releasing. As you turn around, you gently rub at the spots that have gone raw.

“It’s too late to travel,” sighs Price. “She’ll have to stay here for the night. Turn her over to processing tomorrow.”

Processing. Processing?

“We have any empty bunks?” asks Ghost.

“You want her with the general population?” counters Price.

“No,” answers Ghost automatically.

Price glances away, his gaze on the four low buildings nearby. “Take her to a private bunk. Bring her home in the morning.” He turns his gaze back to Ghost. “We’ll follow after.”

“It’ll be good to go home. Been weeks,” murmurs Gaz.

There’s a mutual, silent agreement among them that you pick up on but don’t understand. Your home is behind you, waiting, and yet it is unlikely you will see it again any time soon.

Ghost’s hand on your arm tightens, pulling you against him.

“I’ll take her there now.”

Price nods. A dismissal.

The three men turn and stride off, leaving you and Ghost next to the Humvee. Ghost leans in, head bent slightly in your direction. “Did you mean it? That you’ll behave?”

You lick your lips. Swallow. “Yes,” you breathe.

“Come with me then.”

Ghost’s hand eases before releasing completely. It’s the first amount of freedom you’ve had in hours, and you suddenly dread what that might mean.

Walking beside him, you follow his long strides. Ghost walks right past the four low buildings, passing a larger, communal area, before heading for a squat row of cabin-like dwellings. Ghost heads for the furthest on the end.

Each step is harrowing, dragging you closer and closer to an unknown fate. Ghost is at the door, pushing it open, stepping aside to allow you entrance. You talk past him, enter, come to a stop a few steps inside.

The doors shuts. You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see solid wood.

“What are you doing?” you ask, shuffling backward.

Ghost engages the lock on the door. “Keeping an eye on you.”

“Are—are you staying with me? In the room?”

“That a problem?” counters Ghost, as if your concern is silly.

“I’m guessing my answer to that question won’t matter.”

“No,” replies Ghost. “It won’t.”

You nod weakly, turning away to take a deep, calming breath.

The room itself is just a room, no larger than your average bedroom. There is a single, full bed in the corner, a plain wood desk, a chair, a bedside table, and a lamp. It is free of all other decoration. The bathroom isn’t separate, but blocked off by a half-wall. The sink and shower are in full view, and the half-wall hides the toilet. There is no privacy to be had with Ghost in the room with you.

Ghost grabs the chair from the desk, dragging it over to the door. He pushes it up against the wood, and drops into the seat with a deep sigh. The urge to pee grows. You won’t be able to hold it much longer.

“I have to pee.”

“Then pee.”

“With you in the room?”

Ghost crosses his arms over his chest, settling into the small chair like it’s comfortable. “I can’t see.”

“But you can hear,” you protest. “Can’t you just…step outside?”

Ghost rests the back of his head against the door. “It locks from the inside. I step out and you lock me out.”

“Even if I did, you could easily get back in.”

“True.”

“Then step out!”

“No.”

You could be a child about this. Stomp your feet. Moan and complain. But Ghost won’t budge and your bladder is about to burst.

With an annoyed groan, you go for the toilet, dropping down onto it and letting it all go. It feels so goddamn good even though your pride has taken a blow. You turn your head to the right, and find Ghost watching you over the top of the half-wall.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you gasp. “Creeping much?”

Ghost arches a singular eyebrow. “You really had to go.”

“Oh my God,” you breathe, reaching between your legs to wipe.

“Should shower,” mutters Ghost. “You’re covered in blood.”

You glance down at your top and the red that stains it. It’s not yours, and it thankfully isn’t Ben’s. It’s that fucker’s with the shitty teeth that knocked you to the ground. You want to be rid of him, rid of the grit and dirt and grime. But there is no curtain, and Ghost would see all of you.

“I’ll be fine,” you reply sharply, washing your hands.

Ghost leans forward. “There’s hot water here.”

“Just say you want to see me naked,” you retort, whirling on him.

With a sly swagger, Ghost drags his gaze up and down your body. “I could strip down. Join you.”

Your neck grows hot, and then your cheeks. “That’s not necessary.”

Ghost inclines his head. “Then shower.”

“Do I even have an option here?” you ask, shaking your hands over the sink.

“What do you think, love?”

You stride toward him, suddenly frustrated. “Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“Shower,” insists Ghost. “You’ll feel better.”

“And then what? You’ll join me in bed?”

“Likely.”

“You—”

“Keep the attitude and I’ll give you something else to moan about.” You quickly glance away, nervously tugging on the bottom of your top. “What?” he chides. “You were eager earlier.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There she is,” and you hear the smile in it.

Is he purposefully pushing your buttons? Teasing you because you have no way to wiggle your way out?

“Are you staying here all night, Lieutenant Riley?”

“All. Night,” he replies, slowly pushing up from the chair. Ghost stalks over, observing you like prey. You take a step back and Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t.”

You freeze, staying perfectly still.

Ghost’s gloved hand brushes along the side of your arm. It’s a soft caress, one that makes you shiver. This man is your captor. He has torn you from your home, from the future you imagined for yourself, and smashed it under his fist. There is no reason for you to respond to him like this.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

Chapter Text

Carapace nest. Gator teeth. Swamp water.

Survival. Survival. Survival.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

Empty words. Nothing more than a tree hollowed-out by rot.

You slap Ghost’s hand away, uncaring if the action will draw his anger. The brute doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Don’t touch me,” you growl, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with him.

With a soft snort of amusement, Ghost’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing. You won’t be the first to blink—the first to look away. Glancing down is a show of submission, and you refuse to bow out and make yourself appear weak. It hurts though. A deep pain like a drill to your skull.

Rolling his shoulders, Ghost retreats a step.

It’s a small thing, and you should feel victorious. Yet it’s more like permission, as if he’s allowing this behavior by the grace of his sincerity. The urge to break eye contact flares hotter—bites deeper—and Ghost’s refusal to drop his gaze only makes it that much harder.

Backward step after backward step. A languid sway until he reaches the chair. He slowly eases down into it, sighing loudly, stretching his legs until he’s spread out and comfortable. Relaxed and unhurried, Ghost begins to remove his gloves, absently tossing them onto the floor, revealing tattooed knuckles. Flexing his fingers, Ghost forms a fist, and then relaxes the tendons, repeating the process a few times.

Leaning forward, Ghost starts to unlace his boots. There is no hurry to it. The fact that he’s completely comfortable grates at your patience. He slips off one boot and moves to the other. He reaches for his weapons next, removing his pistol and knives.

“Enjoying the show, love?” he asks dryly.

You roll your eyes and remain mute.

This power dynamic is frustrating, and you’re sick of him pushing your buttons, forcing you into corners. Only moments ago, Ghost was telling you to strip down and shower, to give him something to watch.

No. You’re not playing this game.

If he’s so goddamn adamant about you dipping under the hot water, then so fucking be it. If he wants you to shower—you’ll fucking shower. He wants to see you naked and dripping wet? Fucking fine.

You’ll put on a goddamn show.

Bending forward, you reach for your boots, unlacing then kicking them to the side. Ghost notices, his gaze drifting upward yet he remains silent, his movements staying steady and unhurried. It’s when you wrench your jacket off and start lifting your shirt that Ghost begins to slow. The dirty, blood-drenched shirt crackles as you pull it up and over your head. You drop it onto the floor without giving it a second glance.

Ghost has his hands on his belt, but it’s almost like he’s not moving at all. His gaze lingers on you, and though you pretend not to notice, his chest heaves slightly. Reaching behind your back, you pop the clips on your bra. The flimsy material slides away. Behind the skull mask, Ghost’s eyes grow wide.

You don’t allow yourself space to linger on what you’re doing or if this is a radically poor decision. As the bra hits the ground, you’re already undoing the front of your pants, shoving them down along with your underwear, revealing everything.

You unfurl slowly. Full frontal and bold.

Ghost is motionless. All you can see are his eyes as they dart around, taking in your nakedness. You retain that eye contact, daring him to say anything, to give himself a good look since he wanted it so badly.

Those brown eyes of his roam up, connecting with your gaze. He stills. Coughs. Clears his throat. Glances away.

Fucking men.

You extend your arms out slightly like you’re presenting yourself for his inspection. “Are you?” you counter before placing your hands on your hips.

Ghost keeps his gaze averted, unspeaking.

With victory singing beneath your skin, you turn right, striding toward the shower. The promise of hot water is tantalizing. Not that you don’t have hot water where you’re from, but it’s not automatic. It’s not available with a simple turn of a handle. That’s a luxury from before, and it shouldn’t exist. Yet it apparently exists here.

The promise of a hot shower nearly overtakes whatever adrenaline-fueled nonsense that drove you to strip down in front of Ghost. Now, you’re naked and vulnerable and trapped in a room with him. There is no place for you to flee to. No chance for escape. No privacy.

With your back to the room, you place your hand on the knob below the showerhead. It gives easily under your palm. There’s a rattle—a clanking coming from behind the wall—then water shoots out.

You gasp, stepping back.

It’s ice fucking cold.

The bastard lied. He lied.

Your nipples harden, and your skin pebbles. Instinct kicks in, and you cross your arms over your chest, covering your breasts in a protective gesture.

But just as you’re about to turn away from the icy spray—to curse the skull-faced fucker out—the chill dulls into a lukewarm ache.

You pause. Wait.

The water is warming. It’s actually warming.

“Oh my God,” you sigh as the water heats further. “Oh God.”

Cupping your hands under the spray, the water pools in your palms. You bring it up to your face, eyelids closing as you splash it over your skin. A little giggle escapes you, your smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. Standing directly under the water, you allow it to run all over you, warming you everywhere until you’re almost bouncing on your toes.

Opening your eyes, your gaze scans the wall, and the small nook nestled there. You lean in, and read the labels. There’s shampoo, a bar of soap, and—you blink, shaking your head as if your eyes deceive you. Reaching out, you snag the second bottle and turn it.

It’s conditioner. Fucking conditioner.

Absurd. Ridiculous. How do they even have this?

Back home, shampoo and soap are handmade. Flowers are dried and added to give scent, but that’s only ever for part of the year. They’re usually unscented. Conditioner is unheard of, and if someone needs to give their tresses a lift, they might use a few drops of oil warmed in the palm and applied to wet hair.

Placing the bottle back, you reach for the soap.

A large, muscled arm covered in tattoos appears to the left of you. It extends forward, palm resting firm and flat against the wall. You stare at it, surprised, but it’s fleeting. A solid body bumps into you from behind, forcing you forward. The hot water no longer rains down on you but on the man directly behind you. The very naked, very large man.

His other arm appears to your right, that hand also pressing flat against the wall. You’re caged in. Trapped.

Ghost groans with contentment as the water rushes over him. “Told you there was hot water,” he sighs. He shifts, and you feel all of him, including a hardening appendage that pokes you in the hip.

Seriously? This asshole couldn’t wait?

Glancing over your shoulder, you give Ghost a scowl, only for your stomach to flip upon seeing him. Beneath the skull mask, you weren’t sure what you’d find. Not like you thought about it in any decent capacity. Curious, sure, but also cautious.

What you weren’t expecting was someone attractive. Handsome. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ruggedness of his features. Strong but also scarred.

Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

You should feel nothing for him. He’s taken you hostage, intending to take you somewhere for…processing. Whatever the fuck that means.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask with as much venom as you can muster.

“Showering,” he replies with a sigh. Ghost runs his hand over his face and then his head, slicking back his blondish-brown hair. The eye black is smudged now, running away in little rivers down his face.

“That’s obvious,” you retort. “But you couldn’t wait until I was done?”

Ghost shrugs. “Hot water is limited.”

“Oh.” You snort. “How fucking convenient.”

With a slow roll of his neck, Ghost lifts his head and stares directly at you. “I’ve been out in the bloody wilderness for over a month. Same unit. Same blokes. Breathing the same air. Spending all goddamn day together. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy a simple comfort.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “Is that why your dick keeps stabbing me in the side?”

Ghost chuckles and runs his hand over his mouth. “Just told you I’ve seen the same ugly mugs for over a month.”

“And?” you counter. “That’s an excuse?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s a natural fucking reaction when I haven’t seen a naked woman in over a month.” You try to move away from him, and only end up bumping into the shower wall. “What would you like me to do about it?”

“Great question.” You shrug. “You could stick it elsewhere.” Ghost’s eyebrows rise with a hint of a devilish smirk. “I mean—”

“I can think of a few places,” murmurs Ghost.

“Fucking—shut up. Just don’t let it…poke me.”

“Fucking hell,” he chuckles. “Hand me the soap.”

“No.”

Ghost reaches for it. You slap his hand away.

“Oh, love,” he chides. “If you want my friend to stop poking you, being adorably stubborn isn’t going to help things.”

“You’re a disgusting pig.”

“Then hand me the soap. I clearly need it.”

You do not give Ghost the soap. “If you’re going to force this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Then at least answer some questions.”

Ghost nods like that’s a reasonable request. “And what do I get for answering your questions?” he asks, straightening slightly.

“Soap,” you deadpan.

“No,” he laughs. “I want a scrub down.”

“You want—” You pause, startled, and then quickly recover. “You want what?”

“Suds me up. Scrub me down. I’ll answer your questions.”

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not. Ask for anything else.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Ghost grins, and you know you’ve messed up. “All right, love. Fine.” He pushes off from the wall, the water falling between your bodies. “Now that the mask is off, you want to try that kiss again?”

You scoff. “I’d rather not touch you at all.”

“Kiss,” says Ghost. “Or a scrub down. You pick.”

“Neither.”

“Those are the two options.”

“And I hate them both.”

“Then I don’t answer your questions.”

You lick your lips, looking away from Ghost’s piercing gaze. Stalling. You’re stalling. You don’t want to choose either option, but he’s offering to answer all your questions. Regardless of what’s transpired, Ghost hasn’t lied to you or been dishonest. Flirty and forward? Yes. Pushing your boundaries just to rile you up? Absolutely.

The kiss would be quick. One and done.

“Fine,” you reply after a few moments of deliberation. “I choose kiss.”

Ghost smirks. “You want to kiss me?”

“Didn’t say want,” you correct.

The smirk lingers, and you suddenly doubt your choice.

“Too late,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Too—too late?” you exclaim. “What do you mean too late?”

Ghost shrugs. “I want both now.”

“Oh,” you laugh, blowing raspberries. “Go fuck yourself.”

“My hands no fun,” he muses. “But I’ve made it work the last month or so.”

“Fuck this,” you mutter, turning around.

Ghost’s hand is on the front of your throat in an instant, forcing you back around to face him. “What’s you decision?”

Your heart thunders in your chest. Ghost’s hold is firm but not breath-stealing. This is a show of dominance—a clear signal that he’s the one in charge.

“Is there one?” you ask, even though you fear you already know the answer.

Ghost remains quiet, but his hand on your throat loosens, lingering for a few seconds before dropping away.

The last thing you want to do is give this man any room. And if you agree, what else might he ask for? There’s still the whole night ahead of you, and a singular bed that you’ll be forced to share with him. What can you do in a situation like this?

“I’ll scrub you down,” you murmur. “But I won’t kiss you.”

Ghost nods. He reaches past you, retrieving the bar of soap. He offers it. “Ask me your questions.”

You take it from him, and Ghost straightens to his full height, looking down at you with a neutral expression.

Between your palms, you rub the bar of soap until it lathers. Reaching out with one hand, you pause just before you make contact with his chest.

“Ask me a question,” murmurs Ghost.

He speaks so gently to you that a hint of flustered nervousness arises. You lick your lips, exhaling deeply to absolve the tension. There’s so much you want to ask. Question after question pops into your head, but you’re unsure of which to grab on to.

Clearing your throat, you close the distance, your soapy hand splaying wide over his right pectoral.

The beginning. Perhaps you should start there.

“Why were you after those men?” you ask, moving your hand in a circle.

“They’re terrorists,” he replies blandly.

You rinse your hand. Start lathering again. “That’s all I get?”

Ghost cocks an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”

“Yes.”

Ghost’s gaze briefly flickers away from you. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s unsure of what to say next.

“Those men were part of a larger group. A group that likes to paint themselves as revolutionaries. Resistance fighters.”

You move up to his shoulder, scrubbing there before descending down his tattooed arm. “It’s common to paint an opposing group as the enemy.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“They want to live differently, and that’s perfectly fucking peachy. But they go out of their way to try and free others through violence.”

You shrug, scrubbing at his forearm. “Doesn’t sound much different from how you treated me.”

Ghost grasps your wrist, stilling your hand. You glance up at him, finding that his demeanor has completely changed. There’s a look of sheer desperation and anger on his face, but it doesn’t feel geared at you.

“If those men had taken you hostage, they’d have taken their turns. And if you were somehow alive after that, they’d take you to wherever they call home, and keep going until you died or became pregnant.” You go to yank your arm away but Ghost holds firm. “They’re evil, disgusting monsters.”

A little wave of fear rises, swirling to seize your stomach, turning it into a tumultuous storm. “And what you’re doing to me now is kinder?”

Ghost doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch under that question. “We were hunting this group down because they kidnapped a few of our littles. Do you know how they returned them to us?”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“They strapped bombs under their clothes before reuniting them with their mothers.”

“Stop.”

“You asked for specifics,” he replies. “I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.”

The corners of your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill over. All you can think about are Ben’s two little girls and the children you read to during story time. Imagining any of them disappearing like that, only to be reunited in such a gruesome way brings misery to the forefront.

Ghost’s grip on you eases. You withdraw your hand, vigorously rubbing the soap until the bubbles overflow and drip toward the floor.

“They deserved worse than an executioner’s bullet,” murmurs Ghost, his voice firm yet full of grief.

Placing the soap back on the ledge, you gently lift his hand, scrubbing the suds between and over his fingers. His words linger, hanging in the air until you have to ask.

“Were any of them yours?” you ask, voice a near whisper.

Ghost gives a quick shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, turning his hand over to reveal his palm. “That’s terrible.” You make slow circles with your thumb. “What will happen to the three you brought back?”

“They’re probably wishing we killed them,” he replies. You nod, swallowing, reaching for the soap again. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

“The emblem on your uniform.”

“What of it?”

You start on his other arm. “What does it mean?”

“The flag of England?” he asks, perplexed.

“No,” you smile, shaking your head. “The other one. With the olive branches. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

“It’s the emblem of the United Nations.”

You glance up, hands stilling against Ghost’s muscled arm. “The United Nations,” you exhale, a disbelieving laugh falling on the end of it. “But they don’t exist anymore.” You sound desperate. A bit insane. “Nothing exists anymore.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What do you remember?”

“I remember when we withdrew from NATO. How eastern Europe started to collapse first.” You take a moment, lathering up the soap again. “I remember how country after country declared war. The rationing. The constant threat of a nuclear attack.” You shake your head, scrubbing at Ghost’s skin to distract yourself. “Endless fucking war. And for what?”

“I fought in that war,” says Ghost.

“Good for you,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.

“You’re upset.”

“How observant.”

You keep going, and Ghost takes your wrist again. This time, he’s gentle, stepping closer to you, the water rinsing away some of the residual soap from his skin.

“Ask me something else,” he softly urges.

“How does the United Nations still exist?” you continue. “What’s happened since the collapse?”

Ghost’s expression is grim, and you want to scream.

Did Zac know? Did they know and not say anything? You believed the world to be nothing more than desolation, poisoned from nuclear fallout and disease. Is it all a lie? Or is the destruction not as widespread and extensive as you were led to believe?

“I think you should ask me something else,” Ghost urges again.

The water is starting to cool, and you haven’t even washed your hair.

“I think I’m done,” you mutter, returning the soap to the nook in the wall. You reach for the shampoo, but Ghost grabs it first.

“Allow me,” he says, squirting some into his hands.

You reluctantly turn around, giving him your back. You stay still, and then his fingers slide over your scalp, gently scrubbing. It’s refreshing—relaxing. You sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension leaves your body. Ghost massages the shampoo in, lathering it up.

The two of you fall into silence.

Ghost rinses the shampoo from your hair, and then does his own as you run conditioner through your strands. It’s a quiet back and forth, the two of you moving in and out the water to rinse and repeat.

He reaches for the knob, but you block his forward momentum.

“The water is growing cold,” he says.

“I know,” you murmur. “But you still have black around your eyes.” You gesture at your own face, indicating where there are still smudges on his.

Ghost starts to rub at his face. You step up to him, reaching out to grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

“Allow me,” you insist, adding a bit of soap to your hand.

With one finger, you swirl it around the suds in your palm. Bringing it up to Ghost’s face, you lightly rub at the faded smudges.

“Have any more questions for me?” asks Ghost. You nibble on your bottom lip. Nod. “Go on then. Ask away.”

Using the tip of your nail, you lightly scratch at a few flecks of black. “What’s the mandate?” Ghost grimaces, and you inwardly flinch. “Is it something bad?” you ask tentatively.

“No. Just—” Ghost sighs. “When someone is found outside the designated safe zones, it’s mandated that we bring them back for processing.”

“That’s what your captain said. That you’re to take me for processing. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s reintegration.”

A deep dread forms in your stomach, turning it to lead.

“To what?”

“Society.”

You drop your hand from Ghost’s face. “But I have a home. People that love me. That are waiting for me. I don’t need to reintegrate into anything.”

Even as you say it, you know there is no negotiating. There is pity on Ghost’s face, and you hate it because he knows he’s ripping you from your life, upending everything for some arbitrary rule.

“I won’t go,” and this time your voice is firm. Steadfast.

Ghost turns the knob, shutting off the water. The air rushes in, cooling your skin where the water touches.

“I can’t take you back.”

“You can,” you insist. “You absolutely can.”

“I can’t,” emphasizes Ghost. “In the morning, we’re going home. To the nearest safe zone.”

“No,” you gasp. “I won’t go. I refuse.”

Ghost takes a step forward. Instinct has you stepping back, but it only pushes you up against the wall. “You said you’d behave. That you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“Refusing to take me home isn’t winning you any favors.”

“You’re already on base,” growls Ghost. “There is no going back.”

You smack his chest. “You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

You smack him again. Harder. “Do you get some kind of bonus for bringing me back? An award?” When Ghost doesn’t reply, you form a fist, beating it against his chest. “Or is it something worse?”

Ghost takes a step back but you move forward, raising both fists. You’re ready to swing. Ready to fight.

“Don’t,” he repeats, but you’re seething.

Anger is like a lustful tide, swallowing you down into its depths. “Tell me, Lieutenant Riley. What do you get for bringing me back?” You shove at him, but he hardly moves. “Is it me?” you laugh. “Am I your war prize?”

“Final warning,” he growls, but you ignore him.

“Will they make me your whore?”

The question is a taunt. Airless. Empty. It’s a push. A verbal shove. And it sends Ghost over the edge.

Ghost surges forward, a wall of brute strength and muscle. You stumble backward, only to be shoved up against the wall. His arms rest on either side of your head, his own head bent down, making the space feel small.

“Listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

A small voice inside your head tells you to comply, to hear him out. But there is another voice—this one louder and more insistent. It tells you to cause trouble, to put up a fuss.

“Fuck off,” you reply sharply.

Water drips off the tip of Ghost’s nose. It falls onto your breast, rolling toward your nipple. His gaze follows it, and you promptly strike him across the face. The crack is loud. It echoes against the tile wall.

Ghost mouth drops open, skin reddening where you hit him.

Shit. Oh, shit.

With a growl, Ghost pushes off from the wall, lifting you into his arms without effort. You scramble for purchase, surprised by the sudden movement. He takes three steps and then tosses you onto the bed. You bounce as you hit, one arm shooting out to steady yourself, fingers pressing against the wall as you wobble.

You’re fuming now. Raging.

“Going to have your way with me now?” you mock. “Is that part of the mandate?”

Ghost ignores you. Turning away, he heads back to the shower. He grabs two towels off the rack.

“Let me make it easy for you,” you continue, not backing down. You lean back onto your elbows, chest pushed out, legs extended and bent at the knee in front of you. As Ghost steps around the dividing wall, you spread your thighs, revealing your pussy to him. “You can slide right in. I won’t make a fuss.”

Ghost stills, staring down at your naked body. Your chest heaves, nipples hard and erect. It roams over you, and then he’s staring you down, clearly unamused by this outburst.

“You think I’d take advantage like that?” he asks.

“You joined me in the shower,” you counter. “Doesn’t give me much faith.”

Instead of replying, Ghost throws a towel at you. “Cover yourself,” he mutters, turning away, using the other towel to start drying off.

You hold the towel against your chest. Drawing your legs up, you close them, using the towel to cover the little it can. Ghost is still naked, and he appears in no rush to cover himself. You watch him, observing every movement, expecting him to circle back.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when he discards the towel, standing bare in the middle of the room, Ghost continues to ignore your existence.

He strides over, and your cheeks flame as his cock bounces with every step. You look away, staring at the wall as he takes a knee beside the bed. Grunting, Ghost tugs on something beneath the bed. You turn your head just enough to watch.

Ghost tugs again, and out comes a trunk.

He pops the tabs, opening the lid. The first thing he removes is a pair of clean boxer briefs. Ghost stands up, and you have to pretend you’re staring at the ceiling and not what’s swinging between his legs as he puts them on.

He goes down on his knees again, shifting through whatever is inside. As you start to lean forward, curiosity getting the better of you, you’re met with fabric to the face.

“Put this on,” mutters Ghost as he shuts the trunk.

You hold out a shirt, something far too large to fit you properly. Slowly, you tug it over your head, wiggling it down until it comes to mid-thigh. Ghost snags the towel off the bed, taking yours and his back to the dividing wall. He hands them over the side.

“Be honest with me, Lieutenant Riley.” Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. “Please.”

This time, he turns, and you have no idea what he might be thinking. His features are passive. Neutral. You want to dig around, crack him open, figure out the inner workings of his mind. You’re angry, but you’re lost.

A sparrow in a dark forest.

“This mandate. Bringing me back to a…safe zone. When I come out of processing, am I yours? Do I belong to you?” He stares, and a sinking feeling emerges. You need answers. You desperately need them. “Please,” you say, voice cracking.

He takes a step toward you.

Another.

He comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Fingertips brush against your bare arm. A shiver runs through you.

“No,” he answers. “You don’t belong to me.”

It’s out there. Hanging.

But is it the truth?

“Scoot over,” he murmurs. “Sleep is calling my name.”

Chapter Text

Warmth at your back. Solidness against your thigh. A comforting halo of safety.

Home.

Where there is a hammock on the porch. Where the garden calls your name. Where you sit amongst your archive, losing yourself in the endless books.

Inhaling through your nostrils, you exhale through your mouth, yawning slightly as you stretch your leg muscles, the tension melting away, feeding into the moment of peace.

You’re floating. Content.

There are no marauders. No gunshots. No skull-faced lieutenant dressed in black.

A dream is all it is—a distant nightmare that has passed into memory. It will no longer plague you like an itch. Freedom is in your hands. Vast. Open. A field of endless flowers.

Beside you, something moves, and all that peace is yanked from behind your eyelids.

One eye opens, searching. As you turn your head, a sliver of sunlight cuts through your vision. With an annoyed groan, you retreat from the light. You sniff, and the place smells wrong. It doesn’t smell of home.

“You’re moving too much,” grumbles a male voice.

British. Gruff. Familiar.

We’re taking her with us.

You don’t belong to me.

Your eyes snap open. The wall is an off-white with a hint of yellow, not the florals you’re used to. Above you, the ceiling is the same. This is not your bedroom. This is not your space.

Not a dream, then. Which means—

Ben.

The blood and bullets return, creeping in until it consumes, forcing you back to a moment you long to forget. Unable to contain the pain, you release a little whimper, sounding like a kicked dog.

A large hand gently grasps your upper arm. It’s warm—a little rough. “What’s wrong, love?”

Lieutenant Riley. Ghost. Captor.

A wave rises—laced with grief. Last night, Ghost insisted he could not take you home. That he would not take you back. Home has been ripped from you. By him.

The hand upon your upper arm squeezes in reassurance, urging you to turn toward him. Part of you resists. Refuses. But the pull of comfort is a siren’s song, and there is a man here willing to give it.

You roll onto your back, only for Ghost to push up onto his elbow, leaning over you. The middle of his brow is creased with concern, his whiskey-brown gaze roaming over your face before checking the parts of you above the sheets.

“Are you hurt?”

The tenderness in which Ghost asks surprises you. His grip shifts, cradling your cheek, thumb gently brushing back-and-forth across your skin.

Ghost’s head tilts, gaze roaming over you with an assessing look. “I was rough with you.”

You swallow, saliva sticking in your throat. “You were,” you agree.

His fingers curl slightly, catching on the small hairs on the back of your neck. It’s just a light tug—a redirection, but you surrender to him, allowing Ghost to draw you in.

“Are you in pain?” Ghost’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip.

You shake your head. “Not the physical kind.”

The corners of Ghost’s mouth slightly turn downward. “I can’t take you home.”

“I know,” you reply, voice cracking. Your eyes burn, tears threatening to claw themselves up to the surface. “You said that.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it sounds like he means it.

The future is uncertain, laced with the unknown probability that you will likely never return to the life you knew. But this new world shaped you—made you understand that you don’t always have a choice.

Whatever happens—whatever life you’re about to be handed—you will survive.

You always do.

“I want to believe you. But I don’t trust you.”

Ghost leans in further, the tip of his nose nearly brushing yours. “You shouldn’t.”

Piercing. Sharp. A hollow point on impact. The pain runs deep through your veins, seizing your blood.

This man is no savior—no sanctuary. But he is all you have now.

What will you do after processing, when you’re reintegrated into society? Will they dump you onto the street? Force you to fend for yourself?

Your answer is cradling your cheek, asking if you’re all right.

Survival. Always survival.

“What do you need?” asks Ghost, a husky bite in his voice.

The pain will swallow you up if you allow it, shredding your resolve until you waste away from despair. Dust. Smaller than dust. A scattering of atoms. A small drop in a large ocean. Yet a life raft floats in front of you, asking you what you need, inviting you to grab hold.

Placing your hand flat against Ghost’s chest, you splay your fingers wide, gently caressing. Ghost groans low in his throat—the sound nearly a growl.

“I want to forget for a bit,” you whisper. “To not be afraid.”

Ghost shifts closer, his grip tightening to a possessive hold. “Do I frighten you?”

“Yes,” you gasp as Ghost’s lips linger just shy of your own, teasing the promise of a kiss.

“Do you know what you’re asking for? With me?”

No.

“I don’t care,” you reply, sounding more desperate than you mean to be.

This is a power play, a way to draw him in, to want you enough that you’ll be protected once you make it to the safe zone. Nothing about Lieutenant Riley’s behavior says that he’ll force himself on you, but his actions haven’t entirely been pure. He might be a bad man, but he isn’t the worst of them.

“Won’t lie,” he growls. “You’re a bloody tempting thing.” Ghost’s thumb drops to your throat, pressing lightly against the pulse point.

You press yourself into him, showing interest. A low groan escapes him, his pupils dilating with arousal. Showing a bit of vulnerability with Ghost might result in nothing. Give him your body for the morning, allow him to rut and fuck to his contentment, only to toss you aside once you arrive at the safe zone. It’s a real possibility. A true fear.

Yet there is hesitation speaking in your ear—whispering.

He comforted you during the executions.

He placed Ben somewhere Zac and the others will find him.

No one tried to take advantage of you with him around.

Small acts of kindness. Moments of gentleness. Each is a confusing justification for how you’re feeling. Ghost is not to be trusted, but you might be able to rely on him in this unknown world.

But you also remember his boot on your back, the way he shoved you against the armored truck, how he joined you in the shower uninvited. They negate the good, and you’re left with a neutral reservation of how to approach this man to your advantage.

So you fall into what you know.

“Then take the offer,” you sigh, offering your mouth.

Ghost lingers in the moment, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Thumb sliding up your neck, Ghost presses it to your bottom lip, dragging it down to admire your teeth. Releasing, it pops back into place.

“And what are you offering, hm?” he muses, snuggling closer to you.

The boxer briefs he wears hide nothing, outlining every inch of what he has to offer. There is no mistaking his interest.

“Me,” you answer, all breathy and soft. “You can have me.”

“And I make you forget for a bit?”

You nod, and Ghost shakes his head. “Do you really want this?”

The answer is unclear like swamp water. Ghost isn’t shoving you down into the bed. He’s not forcing your legs open to slot himself between. But he isn’t pushing away or denying you. Either would be preferable. At least you’d know where you stand.

This back and forth is worse.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?” you entice, tilting your chin.

“Yes,” he replies automatically. “Badly.”

Badly is a growl, bordering on desperation.

Oh, fuck.

Ghost’s grip on the back of your neck tightens—almost hurts. You attempt to move and find that you cannot. “You called me a selfish bastard last night. Now you want to have it off with me?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” you counter.

Ghost smirks. “No.”

“You’re familiar with a woman hate-fucking you?”

His smirk becomes a knowing grin. “A good hate-fuck is my specialty, love.”

You roll your eyes, the palm against his chest no longer a caress but a barrier. Pushing at him, you attempt to scoot closer to the wall—to create some distance.

“No,” he says, the singular word full of authority. Ghost surges forward, rolling you beneath him, trapping you against the bed.

“Get off me,” you snarl.

“Thought you wanted to forget?” he chides. Ghost’s knee slots between your legs, forcing them open a bit.

The only thing between your bodies is the shirt you wear. Nothing else. Can Ghost sense your arousal even though you deny it yourself?

“I do,” you answer. Ghost arches a single eyebrow. “I did,” you correct.

“I don’t believe you,” he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against yours, lips dangerously close to falling upon you.

Like a flint strike, a spark snaps into existence. Ghost’s hand delves downward, fingers featherlight as they skim over your bare thigh, only to curl under your knee. He urges your left leg out and then up against his waist. Through his boxer briefs, Ghost’s erection settles where your pelvis and hip meet.

“What would I find if I touched you?” asks Ghost, his hand sliding higher. “Would you be wet for me?”

“No,” you lie.

Ghost clucks his tongue like he knows the truth. His hand moves higher. Higher. Higher. With a roughness that makes you moan, Ghost squeezes your upper thigh, fingers digging into your skin.

“Should we find out, love?”

That large hand of his shifts to your inner thigh, creeping closer to your exposed sex. There is no underwear to create a barrier, and the shirt you wear is bunched around your stomach. As his thumb brushes over your labia, your hips involuntarily rock into his touch. Ghost’s response is an answering groan, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he nuzzles the side of your face.

“Are you wet for me?” he asks, voice a whiskey-bite of a caress.

Breath heavy, chest heaving, you open your leg wider, giving Ghost complete access. It’s just a touch, brief and tentative.

“You are wet for me,” he sighs, thumb pressing to the entrance of your pussy.

You can no longer deny—no longer pretend that his closeness isn’t affecting you. You hate this man. You want to push him away, to claw out his fucking eyes, to scream and curse him with all your energy. But he smells nice, his touch gentle, and the intimacy in which he holds himself over you speaks to a desire within him that seems to go beyond the bonds of simple arousal.

It makes no sense. It’s absurd. Infuriating. Confusing.

You are breaking. Fracturing. Is this even survival anymore? Are you simply giving in?

Just a small twist of his wrist and Ghost’s thumb ascends to gently circle your clit. You gasp with pleasure, head falling back to expose your neck. Ghost dives in, running his tongue along your throat.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

“A hate-fuck doesn’t have to be rough,” croons Ghost. “Can take you just like this.” His thumb plays with you, circling and circling until the soft tingle of pleasure becomes a building, pulsing thing that vibrates under your skin. “Make you beg for me,” he breathes.

With his other hand, Ghost grasps your throat, forcing you to look at him. He holds you close, lips just shy of touching.

“I’ll fuck you slow. And you can tell me how much you fucking hate my guts as I rearrange yours.” Ghost presses his thumb directly against your clit, making you shiver. “What do you say, love?”

“I think you talk too much,” you murmur, purposefully goading Ghost to action.

“Then let’s put our mouths to better use.”

He moves first, closing the distance, pressing his lips to yours. Acceptance is all you can do—all you can offer. You’ve started this game, insisted on this, and now there is nothing but to follow through. You need Ghost to want you, to keep wanting you.

Grasping the back of his neck, you meet him with equal need. While you need him on your side, you also need to let go, to release some of this tension and pretend that your life hasn’t been upended.

His hand between your legs gently strokes, slowly building you towards your release. You gasp against Ghost’s mouth, and he chuckles, going in for one more kiss before descending, peppering your neck with affection.

Your hand roams over his muscled back. There is no consistent smoothness to his skin. Scars are present. Some clean and thin and solid. Others jagged. Rigged. And you briefly wonder where he obtained them all.

Ghost’s tongue tastes the hollow of your throat. “This needs to fucking go,” he growls, tugging at your shirt.

He ceases playing with you, both of his hands grasping your shirt, pushing it up your body. A sudden wave of apprehension rises. The shirt is a barrier, an illusion of safety. And there it goes, right over your head, tossed to the floor.

Ghost’s grasps the sides of your ribcage, planting a kiss between your breasts. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, turning his head to tease the underside of your left breast with his tongue.

“Lieutenant,” you mewl when he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

You fist his hair, tugging Ghost up your body. He makes a pleased sound as he rises to meet you, seizing your mouth with a kiss that steals your breath. His strength is a powerful thing, yet the way he kisses you—touches you is almost reserved in its intensity. There is no intent to harm, to make you fear him.

Ghost breaks the kiss, easing his weight onto one arm. He reaches between your bodies for his boxer briefs, shoving them down and over his thighs, kicking them away. There is nothing between your bodies, not even the sheets.

Sitting up, Ghost settles between your legs on his knees. Every inch of Lieutenant Riley is on full display. Solid, thick muscles. Criss-crossing scars. Tattoos on his fingers and an entire sleeve down his left arm. Whiskey-brown eyes with pale eyelashes that pierce right through you.

This is a wraith. A Sentinel of Hell. Dangerous. Fierce.

And you’re beneath him, panting with the anticipation of bringing your bodies together.

“Tell me you hate me,” he commands, voice gruff and laced with lust.

“I hate you,” you murmur as Ghost reaches out and caresses your inner thigh.

His hand roams upward, smoothing over your stomach. “Again.”

“I fucking hate you,” you say a bit louder.

Ghost fists his cock and pinches one of your nipples between thumb and index finger. “Again,” he growls. “With more venom.”

“I hate you,” you moan. “You’re a selfish fucking bastard. And I hate you.”

Another pass of his hand, fingers tracing lines down your body, sending little sparks of pleasure through you. It’s blissful agony, and though you do hate Lieutenant Riley and the situation he’s put you in, his touch is welcome.

Your legs fall wider.

“Bloody hell,” breathes Ghost as he slides his hand up and down his cock.

In other situations, like this, when you were simply trying to feed yourself or put a roof over your head, the men would already be on top of you, grunting like feral animals for a few thrusts before finishing. There was never any pleasure in it. Never any desire. They would quickly fall asleep, leaving you hollow like an abandoned burrow.

Predators. Every. One. They all leered—sneered at you like you were filth, as if the only place you belonged was beneath them.

Lieutenant Riley doesn’t gaze at you like that. There is appreciation in the way he takes you in. A longing. A…yearning that makes you question all his motives for taking you in the first place. Under his attention, you feel wanted. Desired.

Another stroke, and a bead of precum blooms. You lock onto it, gaze focusing in as more emerges from his slit. As if sensing your thoughts, Ghost wipes it up with his thumb. Reaching out, he presses his thumb flat against your skin between your breast, drawing a line of cum downward.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

You comply, and that thumb slides past your lips and over your tongue. A slightly salty flavor flowers. Now you know his taste.

Ghost drags his thumb over your tongue, then your bottom lip, and to your chin. “Grab your thighs. Draw your legs up. Keep yourself open for me.”

Refusing his authority and pushing back is natural at this point, but in this, you submit. And you’re glad to.

Ghost lowers himself, lips finding yours. It’s not a tease of a kiss, but an embrace, surrounding you with lustful need. You’re going to enjoy this. Deep within you, you understand this, and you want to explore this primal intensity.

Another kiss. Lower. Down your neck. Over your breasts. Across your stomach. Descending. Further. Further still.

His tongue teases, and a little cry escapes you.

“LT!” You nearly come off the bed as someone pounds on the door. “You awake, Ghost?”

“Shit,” mutters Ghost, his warm breath brushing against your inner thigh.

Releasing your thighs, you sit up slightly, staring at the door. There’s a stranger here, wanting entrance. The lusty haze over your eyes evaporates, your head clearing like a rainstorm surrendering to the sun. You went too far. Ghost has his head between your thighs and you were holding your legs open for him, enjoying every second of his tongue.

“Fuck,” you whisper as a spike of panic rises.

You start to draw inward. Even your legs are retreating, pulling away from Ghost.

“No,” he growls, large arms hooking under your thighs. He drags you back. “We’re not done.”

The stranger pounds on the door again. “Ghost!”

“Piss off!” he shouts over the top of your thigh.

Whoever is on the other side of the door laughs. “Captain sent me.”

With a deep sigh, Ghost rests his forehead against your stomach. “Stay here,” he murmurs. He lifts his head, lips glossy, and there is so much hunger in his gaze that it momentarily spears you. “I’m not done with you.”

Jesus Christ.

Ghost pushes off from the bed, and you remain the stagnant deer, frozen to the spot. The pounding comes again, the door rattling loudly in its frame. He strides forward, steps purposeful and pounding.

Disengaging the lock, Ghost yanks open the door. Bright sunlight pours in. “What the bloody hell is it, Soap?”

Soap. You know that name. He sat beside Lieutenant Riley in the Humvee.

Without the plain black balaclava on, you have a clear view of Soap’s face. His eyes are a lovely blue, his dark brown hair is styled into a short mohawk, the sides shaved but not bald. In his arms is a stack of neatly folded clothes.

Soap’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. He whistles, taking in all of Ghost’s nakedness. “Damn, Lt. What a greeting.” He shrugs, smiling like an idiot. “Feel a bit overdressed.”

“You’re taking the piss,” mutters Ghost. “What do you want?”

Soap opens his mouth, clearly intending to deliver a message, but his gaze snags as if caught on a fishing hook.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes as he focuses in on your nude body.

You snatch the bedsheet, covering yourself quickly.

“Eyes on me, Sergeant,” growls Ghost. There’s no kindness in it—only authority.

Soap’s gaze lingers for a few seconds, eventually shifting back to Ghost. “This an open invitation, Lt?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?” asks Soap. He starts to lean to the side, peering at you around Ghost’s shoulder.

Ghost steps into his line of sight, cutting you off from his view. “Put one foot inside this door and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Soap snorts. “Okay, Lt,” he laughs. “I’ll back off.”

Tucking the sheet around you, you scoot down the bed, leaning forward to listen in.

“What’s all this?”

“Clothes,” answers Soap. “Clean uniform for you. Things for her.”

Ghost grunts and extends his arms. Soap surrenders the clothes to him. “Should grab breakfast before it’s all gone.”

“We’ll do that,” mumbles Ghost.

Soap shrugs, and then a wickedly mischievous grin spreads over his face. “Unless this is your breakfast?”

Ghost’s answer is to slam the door in Soap’s face.

There will be no continuation. It’s clear from the heave of Ghost’s shoulders before he turns around to face you. And it’s not like you want to anyway. The fleeting moment of desperation and craving for human connection is shattered. Reality has made a home in your bones, sobering you against the lust you felt only minutes ago.

“What did he bring?” you ask, sliding to the edge of the bed.

Ghost walks up to the bed, dropping the stack on the edge. He starts to sort it, dividing everything into two piles.

“There’s pants and a long-sleeved shirt for you.” He tosses them into your lap. “Socks. A jacket.” Ghost goes through the clothes one more time. “Nothing else.”

No bra or underwear. That’s fine. You can go without for now.

As you start to turn away with the intent to dress yourself, Ghost’s arm rises, his large hand grasping the side your neck. You’re forced back around, staring up at him. He takes a step forward into your space, but you don’t break eye contact. You don’t dare look away.

Everything is falling back into place.

You hate this man even if his mouth made you moan. All you know has been ripped from you, and Ghost is leading you toward a huge unknown without even considering what you want. It’s wrong. It’s fucked up.

It’s a drowning.

In an act of defiance, you attempt to jerk out of his hold, but Ghost remains firm, squeezing until you comply.

“If you want to belong to me, just say the word. I can make it happen.”

You remain mute. Silent.

Fuck him. Fuck all of this.

You are not a toy. Not a piece of property. You are a person, and that should be enough. At home, you were an equal, and no one dared lay hands on you. But this is not home. This is…society. What’s left of it. The very dredges of humanity.

And it’s like scraping the bottom of a shit pot.

Whether Ghost likes your silence or not is unclear. When he releases your neck, he doesn’t ask again, and he doesn’t make conversation. He completely turns away from you, dressing like you’re not even in the room.

Tears form, threatening to spill over, to make you appear weak and frail before him. Angrily wiping at your eyes, you drop the sheet and give Ghost your back. He’s already seen you naked. Fuck—you were holding yourself open while he tongued your pussy. What’s a bit of skin?

You dress quickly, wanting to fix your hair in the mirror before you leave. But as you turn around, you find all your thoughts leaving you. Ghost is a masterpiece of a human, and that ember from earlier sparks again, insisting when it shouldn’t.

His pants are black camo. On his upper body is a long sleeve tactical shirt, solid black in the front and back while the sleeves are black camo. Ghost reaches for his gun, attaching it to his thigh. Next are his knives which he lays out on the small desk nearby. You observe but say nothing as he laces up his boots and slides one of the knives into it.

You expect the skull mask, the eye black. Instead, Ghost slips on a plain black balaclava. On his upper bicep is the flag of the United Kingdom and of the United Nations. Neither of those should exist, and you don’t entirely believe what Ghost said last night. There are still questions lingering in your mind, and though you desperately crave answers, this doesn’t seem like the time.

Ghost clears his throat as he adjusts his belt. “Let’s get some food in you.”

A bit of bite comes to the surface. “As I recall,” you begin. “You were wanting to put something else in me just a few minutes ago.”

Ghost stills, his hands still on his belt. “Are you already on your bullshit today?”

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

Guiding the belt through the loop, Ghost tugs, tightening it. “You said you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“How am I causing problems?” you reply, extending your arms outward as if the problem is a physical thing in the room with you.

Ghost shakes his head, giving the belt one more tug before securing it. “My control is thin right now, love.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your ‘love.’ I’m not anything to you. We’re not friends. Or lovers.”

Ghost chuckles, placing his hands on his hips. “What would you like me to call you?”

“Use my fucking name.”

Just a few steps and Ghost is on you. You stagger backwards, falling onto the bed as he cages you in. “It is taking everything in me not to rip off your clothes and bend you over.”

“Fucking try it,” you snarl.

Ghost is completely calm, unfazed by your outburst. “You’d look so pretty full of me.”

You know he’s goading you. And you fall for it. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“I’d keep you here,” he continues. “Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.” Ghost pushes in, and you have nowhere to go. His face is so close, the fabric of the balaclava scratches your skin. “Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.”

No. No.

“You’re no better than those men you killed.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, bird. With me, you’d be protected. Cared for. You’d want for nothing.”

“You don’t even know me,” you reply. “Every word you say is a lie.”

Ghost shakes his head. “I don’t lie.” You scoff, but he continues. “And you can’t take back what happened this morning.”

With both hands on his chest, you shove at him. Ghost doesn’t budge. He is a rock. Immovable.

“You wanted me,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” you stammer, shoving at him again.

“So wet,” he purrs. “And it was all for me.”

“Stop,” you plead, giving him another shove.

Ghost pushes off from the bed in one fluid movement. Grasping your wrists, he yanks you up and onto your feet.

“I’m not your enemy,” he says like his word alone is enough for you to agree.

It’s all fucked. All of it. You need to survive, to make sure you’re safe for whatever comes to greet you, but you’re afraid. Fearful, like a cornered animal.

Lieutenant Riley is your enemy as much as he is your protector. It’s maddening. Unfair.

I don’t want to go with you. I want to go home.

You lick your lips, trying so desperately hard not to fall apart in front of him. “Then show me,” you plead.

Chapter Text

It’s the noise that hits you first. A visceral gut punch of sound that sends you reeling toward homesickness. The dining hall is packed with people. They sit at long tables and round ones, talking and eating and talking. Living their lives. Simply existing.

But the realization of where you are is far stronger than any yearning for home and community. There are no children chasing each other, their joyful cries echoing off the walls. There is no lazy strumming of a guitar from the corner. No cheerful faces eager to greet you, to invite you to the table, to break bread and ask about your day.

The room is full of soldiers. Blood-drenched creatures. Unknown faces. Male gazes.

A sweaty staleness hangs in the air, mixing with the salty bite of bacon on the griddle. This space is a gnarling twist of enemy territory and diner. A submergence in a warped reality of the past. There is something hauntingly nostalgic about the wood walls and metal ceiling, as if you’re child again at summer camp.

When it rains, do the droplets ring against the metal? Do they sing soft pings to the soldiers as they eat?

“Two legs,” growls Ghost from behind you, the fabric of the balaclava a teasing scratch against the curve of your ear. “And yet you refuse to walk.”

Asshole. Fucking asshole.

And you allowed this man to tongue your pussy? To slide his cum-coated thumb into your mouth? It doesn’t matter how good he made you feel, or how, for a fraction of a moment, the reality of your situation melted away, leaving you only with lust. Survival cradled you, and delivered you into Ghost’s arms because it’s all you know.

Foolish.

Reeling Lieutenant Riley in didn’t have to involve you spreading your legs for him. A kiss or two would have suffice. But loneliness is a fickle disconnect of melancholy, leading you quickly toward a mistake that could have upended everything. You don’t know Soap, but you silently thank him for knocking on the door and dissolving whatever haze invaded your senses when Ghost had you under him.

The easy thing would be to snap at Lieutenant Riley. It’s what you want to do. But this is not the place to tell him off or cause a scene even if he deserves a bit of lip. You are surrounded—caged in by people who’d have his back before yours. There are no friends here. Not even Ghost.

You glance over your shoulder, that whiskey gaze of his biting back with a hint of a spark.

Ghost. Lieutenant Riley.

Your sentinel. Guardian. Protector. Captor.

Best to be the quiet doe here and bow before the stag.

“I don’t know this place,” you reply softly, lowering your gaze in submission.

Ghost’s head tilts slightly, assessing. “No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”

Timidness is the key to his gentleness as much as your dagger tongue. It’s a bit debilitating—nearly a whiplash. Navigating Lieutenant Riley is a windstorm. But like any storm, it will pass. You need only weather him.

Ghost’s gaze turns outward into the dining hall, eyes narrowing. “Stay close to me,” he murmurs, and the tenderness in his voice makes you pause.

Like the gunshots that seemed never-ending, Ghost spoke to you in the same tone, covering your ears, coaxing you to look only at him. These fleeting moments of kindness and affection make no sense. It’s like he wants to possess you and yet smack you down with equal measure.

You sense a phantom hand on your lower back, simply hovering, a breath away from touching. Ghost doesn’t need to touch you to herd you where he wants. A few steps, unbidden, and you move forward into the communal dining hall. No longer hiding just inside the door, you’re out in the open now, on display.

Soldiers at tables nearest you glance in your direction. Their voices become murmured whispers or fizzle out entirely. Here, you are an oddity. Perhaps an apparition. This is not a place for civilians, and the way some of the men leer is a clear indication that if Ghost weren’t standing next to you, they’d approach. The very threat of it forces you to take a step closer to him.

Whether Ghost notices your nervousness or not is an entirely different matter. Lieutenant Riley walks with heavy confidence, his head held high as if he’s proud that you’re at his side, and the men staring at you means nothing. For you, it takes more effort to act like him, to pretend that this isn’t a curling nightmare.

You want to go home. You want your bed and your books and your archive.

Ghost’s footsteps are easy to follow. One. Two. One. Two. With his phantom hand at the small of your back, Lieutenant Riley keeps you at his side and just to the front of him, urging you closer to the front of the communal dining hall where a massive buffet lines the wall. Soldiers move along the queue at different intervals, filling their plates with the morning fare. Unlike Lieutenant Riley and the rest of his team, not everyone is in all black. There are plenty in green fatigues, even dark blue that remind you of sailors. A few are clad in tactical gear like they’re trying to shovel some food down before taking off. There are others that are completely dressed down, more casual but still in uniform.

A whiff of cooking food drifts toward you, stirring your stomach to rumbling.

Ghost’s hand finally connects, purposefully steering you to an open spot in line. A small spike of anxiety flares. It’s just a goddamn food line but you don’t know the order of things, and you’re surrounded by strangers.

But the worry is silly, because you don’t even lift a finger.

Ghost brings you to an open spot and promptly grabs a black tray, placing it in front of you. A plate appears, followed by a few napkins and silverware. You stare; a bit surprised by how he handled it so calmly. You didn’t have to think about anything. Not a single neuron fired.

Ghost nods toward the immense line of food. “Eat whatever you want.”

Whatever you want? Truly?

Briefly glancing over the long buffet line, you turn back to Lieutenant Riley, a hint of disbelief in your tone. “I can do that? Put whatever I want onto my plate?”

Ghost inclines his head. “You’re under my protection.”

As if that answers your fucking question. Sometimes he’s so damn cryptic.

“And what about you?” you ask. “Are you eating?”

Eating in this room with all these eyes on you is daunting. Eating alone sounds worse.

“Already ate,” replies Ghost with a husky drawl.

Images of Lieutenant Riley’s naked body invade, reminding you of your lusty mistake, and how nice he looked when his lips and chin were glossy with your arousal.

“You hardly finished,” you mumble, quickly glancing away in embarrassment.

Ghost makes a humph sound, and though you can only see his eyes, the curling pinch of lines in the corners tells you enough. This man is fucking smirking.

He starts to lean in, and your heartrate quickens. The intimacy is akin to a shared secret.

“Lieutenant Riley!”

Both of you turn abruptly. Ghost pushes off from the metal rail, his shoulders straightening, demeanor changing completely due to whoever’s just addressed him. You scan the unfamiliar faces, only for an older man to appear through the crowd. It’s clear from his uniform that he’s above Ghost in rank, but you wouldn’t be able to say how. Military ranks and the hierarchy of authority isn’t clear to you. And this isn’t the “Price” you met last night. It’s someone else. Someone you don’t know.

“Grab what you want, love. Find an empty seat. I’ll come to you,” says Ghost, not even looking at you as he says it.

Then he’s gone. Poof. Like cigarette smoke drifting into the air.

The large communal dining hall suddenly shrinks, becoming insufferable and stuffy.

Run. Run.

Run. But where to? Where the fuck can you go on a goddamn military base? If you bolt out of here, Ghost would chase you, knock you down and shove his boot into your back. Or maybe he’d take you back to the private barracks, toss you onto the bed, and deal out a bit of punishment. Either would be fucking embarrassing, and no matter how much the animal in you wants to flee, you remain firmly in line, staring at the food as you breathe in through your nostrils and out through your mouth.

Calm. Calm calm calm. Zen. Deep breaths.

You’re fine. Everything is fine. You’re safe.

Saliva pools in your mouth, and the fresh aroma of baked bread creeps up your nostrils. Food. You can focus on that. You can feed yourself and then take the next step after, whatever the fuck that might be. Before you are a plethora of options. Back home, breakfast, lunch, and dinner are all set affairs. Everyone eats the same unless someone has a dietary restriction for medical reasons. There is no display. No bounty. No cornucopia of a feast.

After the world fractured, this amount of food was unimaginable.

Fluffy pancakes. Greasy bacon. Scrambled eggs. Potato hash loaded with vegetables. There are bowls full of color fruit. Oatmeal with different toppings. Grits. These are American classics, but they aren’t the only options. There are fried eggs over rice and even a stuffed flatbread that smells faintly of cumin. It’s made to accommodate many tastes. Options for everyone. Beyond that, you glimpse baskets piled high with fresh bread, and next to that, condiments. You even spy a bottle of hot sauce and a container holding kimchi.

For a moment, it feels like before, as if you were waking up in a hotel and down in the lobby standing before a continental breakfast.

Is this normal? Do the people who live in the safe zones always feast like this? Or is this simply reserved for those willing to pick up a gun for the sake of humanity? Are they fed well to keep them happy?

There’s no use in worrying over what you don’t know. Eventually you’ll find out. Lieutenant Riley intends to take you to the safe zone after all, and once there, you’ll get your answers.

Grabbing the scoop for the scrambled eggs, you dig in, lifting up a heaping amount to place onto your plate.

“I’d avoid that.”

The masculine voice nearly makes you jump right out of your skin. You drop the scoop, the egg returning to the chaffer with a splat. Little specks of egg go flying, landing on the surrounding metal.

“You’ll be in the latrine the rest of the day.”

Jesus.

“Thank you,” you murmur, unsure of the sudden newcomer.

He’s a bit shorter than Lieutenant Riley, perhaps by a few inches, and he wears a similar uniform of all black fatigues. On his upper bicep is the flag of the United Nations and the United States.

He shrugs. Inclines his head. “Or you’ll be fine. Bit of a hit or miss. Depending on the day.”

There’s a slightly southern lilt in his voice. Not Deep South like Mississippi or Louisiana. It’s too neutral. Perhaps northern Arkansas. Maybe even southern Missouri.

But it’s not like you’d ask. In fact, you’re fucking annoyed. There’s already one annoying man in your life. You don’t need two.

“Which is it?” you ask, feigning a smile.

The stranger gazes over the glass, gaze narrowing slightly. Finding whatever he’s looking for, he nods in affirmation. “It’s a good batch.”

How long do you have to amuse him before he’ll move on?

“How can you tell?” you ask, adding some of the eggs to your plate.

He runs his fingers through his dusty brown hair. “It’s who’s at the griddle.” You open your mouth, a reply on your tongue, but this stranger trudges on. Continues talking. “If Four Fingers is on the griddle, you’re good. Always cleans between whatever he’s cooking.”

No. No. This is fucking weird.

“I’m sorry,” you say, holding up your hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”

Please get the fuck away from me.

And where the fuck is Ghost?

“Sergeant Noah Fields.” He extends his hand in a warm greeting. Reluctantly, you take it. The shake is firm but not overly domineering. “I was with Lieutenant Riley’s group,” he says when you drop your hand.

Not really helpful, and you don’t hesitate to say so. “You were all wearing balaclavas,” you reply, taking a step forward to indicate that you’re leaving the conversation. “Can’t say I recognize you.”

Sergeant Fields doesn’t take the hint.

“No, ma’am,” he laughs, some of that southern drawl making a quick appearance. “Suppose you wouldn’t.” he shrugs, walking beside you. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Everything compounds, pushing you back into a place you don’t want to return to. Running for your life. The whizz of bullets flying through the air. A gun at your temple. It wasn’t only Lieutenant Riley that you met. There were others. Three for sure that touched you. Many more looking on.

And which one is he?

You take another step, skipping what looks to be eggs baked into a tomato sauce. A whiff of spice drifts up, and your nose twitches.

“Listen,” continues Sergeant Fields, tone sheepish. “I ow you an apology.” You pause at the hash, briefly glancing at him but saying nothing as you scoop some onto your plate next to the eggs. “A big one.”

“Do you?” you muse, returning the scoop to its cradle.

Where is Ghost? He’d put an end to this conversation. For that, you’d be grateful.

“It’s why I’m interrupting your breakfast.”

That’s obvious.

“And what are you apologizing for?” you prod, entertaining him for the sake of it.

While part of you would enjoy blatantly ignoring him, you also know that you’re not in any position of leverage. Ghost has stepped away. There is no brooding buffer to chase off Sergeant Fields.

He grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck in apparent agitation. A little red flag waves in your head. It’s clear that he’s working up to something, but you don’t know him. They all wore balaclavas. This man is a complete stranger.

“Look,” you say, starting to lift your tray. “Whatever it is—”

“No,” he interrupts. “No. You deserve an apology.”

You go to step around him, but Sergeant Fields backs up, forcing you back to the buffet rail. “Stop. Just—stop. Did Lieutenant Riley put you up to this?”

“Did—” He blinks. Startled. “No.” He rubs at his chest. “I’ve been wanting to apologize since we’ve arrived at base. Heard from the others that you’d been cleared. That you’re being taken back to the safe zone.”

“Per the mandate,” you say slowly.

Sergeant Fields disregards this, moving on. “I treated you poorly. Called you…”

A coldness creeps in, turning your bones and blood to ice. Only three people talked to your directly. And only one called you a name that made you snarl.

These fuckers don’t let their breeders out of their sight.

“Breeder,” you finish for him. “You called me a breeder.”

This motherfucker. Ghost might be a bastard, but this asshole is a fucking villain. He didn’t just call you a “breeder.” He did much worse—insinuated worse.

Sergeant Fields flushes slightly. “I did,” he affirms like a kicked dog.

Time to dig in. To show a bit of fang while you have the upper hand. “And you stuck your fingers in my mouth to look at my teeth.” The venom in your voice is lethal.

The sadness on his face deepens. “I did,” he confirms, denying nothing. “And I’ve come to apologize. To ask forgiveness.” Sergeant Fields sighs. Licks his lips. “I thought you were with—fuck.” He pauses. Starts over. “I judged you. Treated you poorly. That was wrong. Even if you were with them, I know how they treat their women. I should have been kinder with you. And I wasn’t.”

You don’t know this man, but you may not see him again after this. Perhaps you’re about to stroke his ego, but there is nothing on the surface that indicates nefarious intent. Sergeant Fields doesn’t leer, and he doesn’t glance away to stare at your body. He looked you in the face as he gave you his apology.

“I accept, Sergeant,” you sigh.

His solemn demeanor changes, a grin spreading across his face. “Noah. Please.”

“Noah,” you repeat.

“Well, ma’am.” He points to the chaffer next to you. “I’d recommend the pancakes. The grits aren’t too bad. Just add some honey and butter. Or if you’re of the savory kind, a fried egg with a dash of hot sauce.”

“Noted,” you smile, because this is much better conversation, even if you’re ready for Ghost to come rescue you. “Is this standard? The variety?”

Noah takes a step back, allowing you plenty of space to slide your tray down the line. “A few things rotate. Depending on availability. All the safe zones trade with each other.”

So, there are more? But how many?

“Sometimes, the safe zones south of us send citrus. It’s always a rush to the line when lemons and oranges make it here. Bananas, too. But we see those maybe once a year.” Noah snags a bowl of colorful fruit, placing it on your tray. “You can imagine the mayhem when they send us avocados.”

As you open your mouth to answer, a large shadow falls across the two of you. Noah’s charming smile melts like a vaporized ice cream cone. Straightening, Noah becomes stiff and stoic, staring just off to the right of your shoulder.

You turn slowly and find your masked kidnapper hovering there, arms crossed over his chest, the middle of his brow a sharpened v.

“Sergeant Fields,” growls Ghost.

Oh. This is interesting. There’s something here. Something you might be able to manipulate.

“Lieutenant,” you greet with a sunny smile. “You’re back.”

You’re far too cheery, and Ghost knows it. When his gaze slowly slides in your direction, his irritation with Noah turns into a silent “really?”

“Noah was helping me.” You turn toward Sergeant Fields. “Isn’t that right?”

He visibly swallows. “That’s right, Lieutenant.”

Ghost is unwavering. That whiskey-brown gaze of his locks onto Noah like bloodied daggers. “I can take it from here, Sergeant.”

“Course, sir,” nods Noah. He briefly turns toward you. “Glad we can start over.”

As he walks away from you and Ghost, you start sliding your tray down the line. Ghost grabs the edge, halting all forward movement. You don’t even entertain him with an answer. Instead, you attempt to shove your tray into his hand.

“What did he say to you?”

You narrow your gaze. “Why the fuck do you care?”

“What,” says Ghost slowly. “Did he say?”

Fucking hell, this man is insufferable sometimes.

“Nothing,” you mutter. “We made small talk.” You jerk the tray again, but Ghost keeps his hand firmly in place. “Is there an issue, Lieutenant?”

“First names. Fresh starts,” he lists. “A flirt.”

“Let go of my tray.”

“What did he say to you?” repeats Ghost.

“You know, Lieutenant,” you sigh heavily. “I think you’re jealous.”

It’s a flicker. An ember that flares then cools. Ghost’s pupils dilate slightly then retract. It’s unnerving the way he’s staring at you.

“Stay away from him,” he breathes, the command smoke-laced.

In this, he wants you to obey—to submit to his authority. The commonality here is that Ghost can take orders as well as give them. But unlike Sergeant Fields, you won’t allow Ghost to push you around. Not all the time.

“Look at you, Lieutenant. Didn’t even deny it.”

The tease is a poke. Like a needle under the nail.

“Like I said. Stay away from him.”

“Why?”

“He’s untrustworthy.”

“Wow,” you exclaim. “That is super helpful. Thank you so much for explaining. I totally understand now.”

“Don’t be cheeky,” replies Ghost, releasing the tray.

The release in pressure nearly sends you stumbling. With a huff, you brush by Ghost, purposefully catching his arm with your shoulder. Keeping your focus on the trays of food, you add more to your plate. Some of the options are foods you haven’t seen in over six years. It’s all sitting there in front of you, begging you to take it.

“Do you know him?”

Ghost’s question startles you.

“Do I know him?” you ask, a bit baffled.

“Glad we can start over?” he prompts, repeating what Noah said just minutes ago.

You roll your eyes. “Fucking ridiculous,” you mutter. Lifting your tray off the rail, you walk around Ghost, heading for the baked bread.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

You grab the tongs and pick out a few pieces still steaming from the oven. “Am I allowed to eat my breakfast in peace?”

“No.”

“Wonderful,” you muse flatly, moving over to the beverages. “Aren’t you going to eat?” you ask, changing the subject.

“Told you,” replies Ghost. “I already did.”

“I don’t count.”

Ghost leans against the counter, his back to the carafes of coffee, his front facing the dining hall. There’s movement in your peripheral. Someone approaching. You don’t even have the chance to see who because Ghost growls at them like a dog giving a warning.

“Really?” you side-eye, grabbing a glass of water.

“He was staring at your arse.”

Placing the glass on your tray, you turn toward Simon, one hand resting against the counter. “Who the fuck are you talking about?”

“Sergeant Fields.”

“Oh, please,” you guffaw.

“Noah. Since the two of you are on first names.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Ghost grabs your water glass and moves it. “Balance is off. Tray will tip when you lift it.”

“Can we just have a normal morning?” you ask. It’s a simple request. “Without—” You gesture between the two of you. “Whatever the fuck this is.”

Ghost’s upper body shifts in your direction, but you suddenly realize that you’re not finished. That you’re not actually wanting an answer.

“Also. How the fuck would you even know that? He was standing directly in front of me. When did he even have the time?”

Ghost inclines his head, speaks casually. “I caught him staring before he came up to you.”

“You’re making shit up.”

“I don’t lie.”

You lift your tray off the counter, deciding it’s best to go find a seat and leave Ghost behind. This conversation is exhausting. And your eggs are going cold. But before you even take a step, Ghost is right there, grabbing the tray out of your hands and putting it back on the counter.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

Ghost moves in. Dangerously so. “I. Don’t. Lie.”

“Do keep stroking your own ego.”

His voice lowers, becomes that soft croon when he spoke sweetly to you. Promised you things. Promised you protection. “Please,” and you realize he’s begging. “Stay away from him.”

This is beyond ridiculous. It borders on possession. Ghost may have ripped you from your life only to thrust you into a new one, but he’s not anything to you. He’s simply an instrument. Something you can wield so that you make it out the other side alive.

You take a step forward, leaning into him in the same way you offered yourself. “I was willing this morning,” you whisper. “I…wanted you.” Your confession is sin-drenched, and it pulls the reaction you want. The middle of Ghost’s brow softens, and then there is nothing but pure longing. “In a way,” you continue. “I think I still do.”

It’s not untrue. It felt good to be beneath him, for his hands to roam and touch, to taste and consume.

But this confessional is not to please him.

You withdraw the allure. Find the devil in you.

“And now you’re fucking hurt because another man spoke to me.”

Even the balaclava cannot hide his sharp inhale. “Sergeant Fields is a fucking snake.”

You say it slowly, each word like the prick of a dagger tip. “Choke on my dick, Lieutenant.”

It starts a soft, musing chuckle. Then a laugh. All that fire within you extinguishes, put out by the flood that is Ghost.

“Oh, dove,” he purrs. “You’ll look bloody gorgeous choking on mine.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, dove,” purrs Lieutenant Riley. “You’ll look bloody gorgeous choking on mine.”

Honey should be sticky—have a hint of sweetness. This is putrid and rotten, a foul thing that deserves to be discarded. It is regret. Entrapment and regret. Over and under and sliding between bone.

Housed within you are two warring voices. One rebukes the idea of you submitting to Ghost, to fall to your knees and present yourself in obedience. The other preens at the notion, knowing that you would look a gorgeous mess with a stuffed mouth and aching throat.

Lieutenant Riley’s words fuel an itch—a manifestation of a twitch in the tips of your fingers. It is all the realization you have before your flattened palm swings toward Lieutenant Riley’s face. Full comprehension comes like an exploding bullet. Ghost maintains eye contact and seizes your forearm, halting the slap in its tracks.

“Careful,” says Lieutenant Riley, keeping that sultry purr in his voice. “Or it’s a public punishment.”

The muted roar of the room widens, swallowing you into reality. Ghost’s hand shifts, easing its grip, guiding your arm back to your side. Sliding down, the tip of his index finger slowly traces a line along the underside, pausing at your palm before retreating. It’s a fleeting caress, but it sends a shiver through you.

“I’m done with this conversation,” you breathe, backing up, hands trembling slightly as you grasp the sides of the tray.

Retreat is rearing its head. This place is too bright, too loud, too much. Lieutenant Riley’s imposing figure doesn’t help. The way he looms over you, nearly trapping you against the counter, is cage-like.

Lieutenant Riley hardly blinks. Hardly breathes. He is a statue, and that intensity pins you to the spot. “Tell me you’ll stay away from him.”

Tooth and claw and bite.

Gentle doe. Submissive dog. Survival instinct.

Two sides. And the venom wins.

“Jealousy isn’t an attractive quality,” you reply sharply, staring right back.

Ghost is unmoved by your irritation. “Say it,” he growls, and there is so much authority in his voice it gives you pause.

Lieutenant Riley is a stranger. Sergeant Noah Fields is a stranger. Everyone in this room is a stranger. This place is strange. You’ve been wedged into a tight space with little room to turn and face both walls. You’re stuck forward, propelled toward a choice you didn’t make for yourself.

“Fine,” you mutter, the agreement nearly an exasperation. “Fine.”

Better to relent, to ease Ghost’s fears if it gets you to your breakfast faster, to end this conversation. Not that your stomach is growling anymore. Even that has abandoned you.

“If it makes you happy, Lieutenant,” you sigh. “I won’t speak to him.”

“No. You won’t go near him,” corrects Ghost.

“Can I eat now?” you ask, irritation clear in your tone.

“Say it.”

You exhale heavily, rolling your eyes. “I don’t understand you,” you whisper as a young man wearing black fatigues walks past. “Or this possessiveness. I don’t belong to you, Lieutenant.”

Ghost pushes in, and you lean back to maintain eye contact. “You’re under my care and protection. What I say goes.”

“I am not your property.”

His response is a bolt of lightning. “On base, you are.”

On base, you are.

You don’t belong to me.

Maddening. Infuriating. You specifically asked Ghost if the mandate made you his, and he told you no. Now here he is, marking you as a piece of property as if it’s perfectly okay and not a slap in the face.

No choices. No options. You’re nothing more than a penned animal. Worse, actually. You’re the mud in the pen that’s more shit than wet earth. The urge to lash out rises, snapping and hissing like a rattlesnake. You want to strike him, to kick and scream and shriek like a banshee. Burn it all down. Throw a fucking fit.

“Well, your property wants to eat her fucking breakfast.” You say it slowly, adding all your seething anger. “Does she have your permission?”

Lieutenant Riley is silent a long moment, that piercing whiskey-brown gaze of his slicing right through to your marrow. It’s tactical. On purpose. The silence widens and it only squashes whatever resistance you’ve mustered up. Your question dangles in the air—a tempting bite. When you think he won’t speak—that Ghost will say nothing, give no ground—he inclines his head, clearly indicating that you’re finally allowed to sit down, and fucking eat something.

“Great,” you say through clenched teeth.

With hands grasping the sides of the black tray, you lift, turning toward all the tables in the communal dining hall. The overwhelming sensation from earlier reappears to wrap itself around you, hugging you in a vice. A fleeing rabbit stalked by prey. All those eyes on you. Mouths moving, whispering to each other, urging you to drop your tray and fucking bolt. Your vision narrows to a tunnel, and your chest heaves, each inhalation sharp and biting.

Lieutenant Riley’s hand finds your lower back. It flattens. Presses to urge you forward. His touch is enough of an anchor to ground you, to slow some of the racing adrenaline. Your feet are phantoms, moving only at his beckoning touch. Ghost could lead you right out the main doors and back to the cabin and you’d go without hesitation. Like cattle, you are herded, forced into a seat that is isolated and away from everyone. No one even glances in your direction.

Ghost lingers but he doesn’t sit.

“Are you not staying?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

This man might annoy the fuck out of you but not having him around in a room full of strangers is worse.

“I’m staying,” he affirms.

You gesture at the empty seat across from you. “But you’re not sitting?”

“No.”

With that one word—no—Lieutenant Riley disappears. Walks away. Leaves you utterly alone. You sit, stunned, fork clenched in your fist as you attempt to figure out where he’s gone. Scanning the room reveals nothing. He is shadow, melting in until you can’t tell the difference between faces. Turning away from the lingering looks, you focus on the food in front of you.

Fork to plate to mouth to plate again.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Fork. Plate. Mouth. Plate.

Breakfast is all silence. It is you sitting alone at a table while everyone watches but refuses to approach. It’s fucking isolating—almost embarrassing. It’s like you’re a child again, separated from your friends during lunch for misbehaving. And you still sense Ghost. You know he’s nearby, lurking, but just out of sight. There are brief flickers. Fleeting glimpses. You’ll glance up, catch sight of his balaclava. Then he’ll return to the crowd like he was never there at all. But the man doesn’t come sit with you, doesn’t come to tamper with your mood or to aggressively flirt and piss you off. Lieutenant Riley removes himself entirely.

And you?

You’re a machine. Feeding yourself even though you taste nothing. It’s all instinct now. Fueling your body instead of enjoying what’s in front of you.

Sucking your fork clean of syrup, you rest it on your plate, dabbing at your lips with a napkin.

“Left you here by yourself?”

The familiar, Scottish accent draws your gaze upward. Soap stands next to the table, arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow slightly arched with amused concern.

“I’m sorry?” you choke, startled.

“Lt.”

Lt. Lieutenant. Ghost.

You shrug. “He’s around,” you reply, giving the dining hall a once over.

Soap shrugs, a sheepish expression on his face. “Apologies for interrupting this morning.”

You almost spit out your water. “Nothing happened,” you say quickly, wiping away a dribble of liquid with the back of your hand.

Soap’s lips purse slightly. “Wouldn’t let me join. He always lets me join.”

“He—what?”

“Means he likes you.”

“Sergeant,” you squeak, a little wave of dizziness rising.

Soap opens his mouth, prepared to continue, but Lieutenant Riley appears on your other side as if he snapped into existence, summoned by the fact that you dared speak his name without him around.

“Johnny,” he grumbles.

Soap beams, clearly unaffected by Ghost’s gruff tone. “Came to find you. Thought you’d be with your woman.”

“I’m not his woman,” you growl.

Soap keeps talking. “Convoy’s ready. Price wants to head out soon. Go home.”

Lieutenant Riley nods, his attention turning on you. “Finished?”

“Yes?” you answer, and you have no idea why it comes out a question.

Behind the balaclava, his eyebrows rise slightly. “Not enough?” He sounds genuinely surprised.

“It was,” you quickly correct, standing. “Where do I put this?” You gesture at your tray.

Ghost answers by picking it up and walking away. You follow him, Soap snorting with amusement as you try to keep up with Lieutenant Riley’s large strides.

“I can do that,” you say, nearly catching up to him.

All you hear is a muted grunt, and then Ghost is handing the tray off to the dishwashers at the far end of the buffet line. He turns abruptly, almost knocking you down.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. No, of course not. What the fuck kind of question is that?

“Would it matter?” you breathe, defeated.

“No,” he states plainly, because it doesn’t, and you know this. He knows this.

Your choice is obsolete, and autonomy only matters to you. No one else cares that you’ve been dragged away from your previous life, that you’re going to places unknown. They all appear unfazed. Lieutenant Riley certainly doesn’t seem to care. The “mandate” is a duty to him, and you should be thankful for it.

What a fucking honor.

“We should go,” says Ghost, voice gentle and soft like he’s trying to ease your worry.

The soothing nature of his tone fails to pacify. There is no calmness in your heart. Only defeat and anger.

He places his hand on your lower back again, drawing you away, escorting you toward the main doors. You press into his side, seeking shelter and comfort because it’s all you have. It’s not fair. It’s not right. As much as you loathe him, there is a kindness there that chips away at your shell, exposing the fracturing interior.

The crisp air stings your skin. You keep your gaze ahead, staying pace with Ghost and Soap as the three of you head toward the convoy.

“Ghost! Soap!”

You slow, and Ghost glances over his shoulder at you as the two men move ahead. Gaz approaches, but you’re not part of this group. It feels odd to stand beside Lieutenant Riley. You give a quick shake of your head at Ghost. He turns away.

They grasp hands in greeting, speaking in low voices. If they aren’t paying you any attention, can you slip away? How quickly would they lock this place down in search of you?

“Dove.” Lieutenant Riley’s gruff voice washes over you.

You close your eyes. Inhale. His warm hand slides over your neck to cup your cheek. As your eyelids flutter open, Ghost gently guides your face around to him. He’s standing so close, almost on top of you.

“You shouldn’t touch me like this,” you sigh, hating that you’re enjoying this.

“Why not?”

You lick your lips. “Haven’t earned it.”

The pad of his thumb brushes over your chin, traces the underside of your bottom lip. “You hate me,” murmurs Lieutenant Riley.

“I do,” you agree.

Ghost lowers his head, hovers like he’s waiting for a kiss. “In time, you won’t.”

His touch becomes a firm hold.

Ghost’s hand shifts to the back of your neck, squeezing, fingers lightly digging into your skin. It’s possessive—domineering. And you resist, pulling back just as Lieutenant Riley pulls.

“No, love,” he growls. “Behave.”

“Fuck you.”

Though he wears a balaclava, you know he’s smirking. You see it in the way the skin around his eyes wrinkle. “Think you’re cute?”

“I don’t belong to you.”

Ghost’s hand on your neck tightens even more, the fine hairs there catching in his grip, the roots stinging as they’re pulled. “You will,” he breathes. You smack at his arm but he’s immovable. “And now we’re leaving.”

With Ghost gripping the back of your neck, you’re half-walked, half-dragged to the convoy. This is the shit you hate.

“I can walk,” you growl, attempting to yank yourself from his grasp.

Lieutenant Riley says nothing as he brings you to a stop beside a Humvee. His hand on the back of your neck remains until he opens the back passenger door.

“Get in,” he nods.

This is a demand. No room for arguing.

As his hand falls away, you smack it, deliberately forcing Lieutenant Riley to draw back. You shoot him a death glare. “I’m sick of you touching me.”

“A lie,” he drawls. “Now, get in the vehicle.”

“No.”

“Get. In.”

You stand tall, shoulders back, spine straight. “Fuck. You.”

“More than happy to toss you in.”

“You—fuck.” You glance away, unable to stay strong.

Lieutenant Riley rests his arm against the side of the Humvee. “You worried?”

“Of course I’m fucking worried, Lieutenant.”

“Just asking,” he mutters.

“Why can’t you take me home?” you breathe.

“The man—”

“The fucking mandate. Yes. I know.” You shake your head. “But that’s not an answer.”

“It is,” insists Ghost.

“Not to me,” you gasp, almost choking on a burst of hysterical laughter. “Do you even understand how I feel right now?”

Lieutenant Riley remains silent.

“Fine. Fucking fine,” you mutter, sliding into the Humvee, moving to the far side to give yourself space.

Ghost casually glances over his shoulder before sliding in after you, shutting the door. The front driver and passenger doors open, two soldiers hopping in. You discreetly check their arms. While the United Nations flag is the same, the two country flags are different from the two that drove the Humvee on your way to base.

“Ready to head home, Lieutenant?” asks the driver as the Humvee roars to life.

Ghost nods. “Are you?”

Shifting gears, he answers. “Ready to see my wife. Hug my kids.”

The Humvee rolls forward.

“How old is your youngest?”

“She’s three now.”

“You’ll see them soon,” replies Ghost.

You keep your gaze averted, not wanting to engage in conversation with any of them. It only makes you yearn for home, for your hammock and your books.

As if sensing your discomfort, Ghost leaves you to your solitude. Space is another matter. He spreads out, stretching his legs, and you find yourself pressing yourself against the Humvee door to regain some of that bubble. Distance and quiet is what you crave, to be alone with your thoughts, to fucking brood and be left alone.

Staring out the window, you watch the base become a dark spot in the distance before disappearing entirely. It is open road and overcast skies. Like yesterday, the roads are astoundingly clear and uncongested. Weathering has created holes and cracks, the tarmac sometimes raised or sunken in some areas where the ground has shifted. A few times, the convoy slows, navigating around craters that could easily swallow a vehicle. It’s still strange how the roads themselves aren’t exactly maintained yet are somehow completely clear of cars. Those you do see are pushed off into the medians or ditch, allowing for a clear path.

A question blooms.

You begin to lean toward Lieutenant Riley, the words ready to leave your tongue. His head turns as if sensing your eagerness to ask him a question. Gazes meet. Pupils dilate. Ghost matches your movement, sliding closer to you.

Sudden panic rises.

You think better of it, twisting away from him at the last second to deliberately stare out the window. From your peripheral, Ghost shifts to the right, scooting closer to you. He knows you wanted to say something, and he’s trying to draw your attention back to him.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The overcast skies dissipate—becomes sunny. The convoy halts briefly to refuel from the tanker. You’re able to stretch your legs, to walk a bit, to enjoy the sun against your skin. Ghost keeps a respectful distance, but you feel his gaze with every step. The respite is brief, a flicker of relief before you’re back in the stuffy Humvee. It’s more road. More silence. At some point you drift off, jerking awake when the Humvee hits a deep dip in the road.

“We’re five miles out, Lieutenant,” says the driver.

“Use the long-range radio.”

He presses a few buttons on a panel embedded in the front dash. He brings the microphone to his mouth. “Eagle this is Bravo. Over.”

He pauses. The vehicle is silent.

“Again,” instructs Ghost.

“Eagle this is Bravo. Over.”

A few seconds, then the radio crackles.

“Bravo this is Eagle.”

“Convoy returning.”

“Heard. Convoy returning. Welcome home, Bravo.”

All three men sigh, their relief palpable. You do not share in their joy. A creeping dread settles in, starting in your stomach, unspooling to claim chest and lung and limb.

“You’re nervous,” murmurs Ghost, and you nearly jump at how close his voice is.

You turn abruptly, finding him in your space. “Why would you think that?” you whisper.

Lieutenant Riley nods downward toward your lap. You follow that nod, and find your hands clenched into fists, the skin taut over the bone from tension. Shaking out your hands, you stretch your fingers to ease the ache.

The convoy crests a hill, and whatever snarky reply you were going to say evaporates.

As the vehicles ahead slow, so does the Humvee as the convoy reaches a checkpoint. It’s not a makeshift box with a gate. The structure consists of two large guard towers connected by a wide overhang that arches over the road. The sides extend outward into a solid stone wall before giving way to high electrical fencing. Machine guns face the road, aimed at some point in the distance. You expect the convoy to come to a stop, but it only creeps through. Several men on the ground wave, but it’s fleeting, and then you’re back on the open road again.

But it’s not empty. There is no barren landscape or desolation. On either side are vast fields full of growing food. People work, moving along the rows, crouched or bent over. Harvesters roll through another.

The world is supposed to be broken. Shattered. But from your current viewpoint, humanity appears to be thriving. Are any of the things you know the truth? Is it all a lie?

“Didn’t expect this?”

This time, Ghost’s voice doesn’t startle you. You lean toward him, so many questions blooming, eagerly wanting to burst forth.

“How?” you whisper, voice breaking slightly. “How is this possible?”

“Not what you thought?”

“No.”

Fields give way to a few low buildings and pastures full of animals only to return to fields again. Through the windshield, a sharp forms. A wall. Not makeshift. Not like the one your little community built. This is a true barrier. This is a city.

“Ghost,” you whisper, as the convoy breaks away from the main road, heading right along the exterior wall. You press your face to the glass, looking upward. “What is this place?”

“The safe zone. Home,” he answers.

You draw back from the window. “But—”

“You’re surprised?”

“Yes,” you hiss.

“You know nothing about the safe zones?”

“Of course I don’t. I thought we already established this.”

“What do you know?”

You lick your lips, not wanting to admit how little you do.

“This is the farthest I’ve been from home since everything…collapsed.”

Lieutenant Riley’s expression is passive. “There’s time to talk about this later.”

“Don’t dismiss me.”

“I’m not,” he growls. “But this conversation deserves space. I can’t give you my full attention right now.” Ghost glances away from you, gazing out the windshield. “When we stop, follow my lead.” He returns his attention to you. “Do not speak to anyone. Do not stop for anything. Stay at my side until I hand you off.”

“For processing?” you deadpan.

“Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” you snap.

What’s the point in fighting? You can’t go back. You can only go forward.

Ghost has his door open the moment the convoy stops. Sliding out, he turns and gestures at you in a “come here” motion with his hand. You shimmy across the bench seat. As you swing your legs to hop out, Ghost grasps your waist and lifts you right out of the Humvee. The move is so startling that your hands grasp his shoulders to steady yourself.

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Ghost gives you a flirty wink. Someone whistles in appreciation.

You promptly drop your hands. “You did that on purpose,” you mutter.

“I did.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. Lieutenant Riley ignores your irritation, placing his hand on your lower back. “Follow me.”

The ground beneath your feet is paved, and where it isn’t is mud, the grass either dead or worn away. Soldiers move about, many in all black, faces covered. They move amongst the buildings and tents, their gazes raking over you but their voices silent. But looming over everything is that wall. It’s not monstrous yet it’s tall enough that you have to look up at a sharp angle to see the top.

Ghost tugs you along, guiding you toward a plain building in a faded army-green. The two of you pass under a partially enclosed awning, but Ghost doesn’t go to open the door. Another sharp tug, and you’re pressed up against the tarp-like fabric of the awning.

“When we pass through that door, I won’t be able to come with you?”

He presses in, enclosing the space until it feels like it’s just the two of you in the world.

“What do you mean?”

“You have to go alone.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, voice rising slightly. “All this and now you’re going to abandon me?”

Ghost’s brow softens, his gaze shifting to a sultry look. “Thought you hated me?”

“This is not the time, Lieutenant.”

His gaze softens even further, rushing toward a concern that you want to wish away. There is no reason for this affection.

Grasping the sides your face, Ghost cradles your head in his hands. “You’ll be fine. But you promise me you’ll do as your told behind that door. Don’t resist.”

Tears start to form. “What’s going to happen to me in there?”

“Nothing bad,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

“But you can’t tell me?”

“You’ll hate me more if I do.”

You shake your head, hands grasping Ghost’s muscled arms. “No,” you whisper. “Just take me home. Please.”

“I’m sorry, dove,” he replies softly, brushing a single tear with his thumb.

He pops that thumb into his mouth, swallowing your tear.

You shove at him even as he grabs your elbow, guiding you to the door, entering a code in the keypad. The buzzer sounds. The door clicks open.

“No.”

You dig your feet in but Ghost is so much stronger.

There’s a bite of where your heels catch—then a stumble. You’re thrust into a small, enclosed atrium, no larger than a bathroom. A plain, grey door leads to an unknown place while a balding man sits at a desk behind a glass panel.

Caged. A trapped animal.

“Have an outsider for reintegration.”

Ghost’s voice is completely detached, like you mean nothing to him, as if he wasn’t between your legs just this morning, kissing you like he wanted to devour you.

The man behind the desk nods, reaching off to the side, pressing a button. “Reintegration. Female,” he says flatly.

Ghost tugs you a little closer, his gaze serious and unreadable. You count the seconds, each passing tick bringing with it a growing fear. Lieutenant Riley is your safety net even if he’s your enemy.

The grey door opens, and a blonde woman with a severe bun steps through. She wears a white coat, and a stethoscope hangs around her neck. Her smile is nice. Happy. No maliciousness lurks beneath.

You turn to Ghost, eyes widening.

“You’ll be fine,” he insists with a whisper.

I don’t lie.

You give a slight shake of your head. Ghost grasps your hand, squeezing it in reassurance. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

He releases your hand. Steps back. There’s a softness in his gaze that you recognize. Ghost knows he’s ripped you away from everything. It’s a silent apology.

“Through here, dear,” the woman urges.

You step toward her, and she moves to the side to allow you to pass. Every step is shaky, but you go, looking back over your shoulder, looking at Lieutenant Riley until the door shuts. With it’s closing comes a coldness. A numbness that settles into your limbs.

“I’m Doctor Roe.” She extends her hand and you take it, giving you name in turn. “It’s lovely to meet you.” She gestures ahead. “We’ll go down this hall, show you where you’ll stay the next five days.”

“Five days?” you ask, voice cracking.

“Did Lieutenant Riley not tell you about quarantine?” Dr. Roe sounds genuinely surprised.

How does she know Lieutenant Riley?

You shake your head. “He didn’t tell me anything.”

Dr. Roe inclines her head, her mouth forming a small frown. “That’s unfortunate. But you don’t have anything to fear.” That frown melts away. “It’s standard procedure. We don’t want to release you into the general population if you’re carrying something.”

“Wouldn’t I have exposed the soldiers?”

“Yes, but they’re fully vaccinated. They’re also tested more often, especially those that go beyond the exterior checkpoint. Stricter requirements.”

The two of you pass by several doors. All of them shut.

“So I’m locked in a room for five days?”

“Oh, no,” she laughs, waving her hand in front of her. “Nothing like that. It’s just where you’re staying. You’ll be pulled periodically. Once the five days are up and you receive a clear bill of health, you’ll meet with someone to talk about your transition to life behind the wall.”

She comes to a stop at the second to last door. There is no lock, no keypad, and at first you think it odd. But where would someone like you go? You wouldn’t get far even if you tried.

The room is small but spacious with a private bathroom and no visible cameras. There’s a queen bed shoved against the wall, a small kitchenette, a lounge chair with a spare bookshelf.

“It’s not much,” Dr. Roe sighs. “But it’s something.”

“I’m a science experiment,” you mutter.

“It does seem like that, doesn’t it? I’ve been asking for more activities to put on the bookshelves, but do they send me anything? No.”

She’s making conversation like this is all completely normal.

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll get three meals a day. And snacks.”

“Lovely,” you mutter, poking your head into the bathroom.

Dr. Roe clasps her hands in front of her. “I’ll leave you for now.”

You only nod, because there is little you want to say. When the door shuts and you’re left in silence, you sink to the floor, curling in on yourself. Tears come, and you cannot contain them. They fall and go dry and then you choke.

When someone finally comes to fetch you, it’s another doctor accompanied by a security guard. Their presence is a silent instruction. Comply, or be dealt with. Instead of fighting it, you hesitantly go along, Lieutenant Riley’s words repeating in your head. You’re taken for a full physical with a blood draw. The next day are vaccinations. Then a dental exam. Then a psych eval. You’re poked and prodded and questioned, but the worst comes last.

“Is this necessary?” you ask, staring at the vaginal speculum.

Dr. Roe replies while looking at her chart. “It’s just to ensure everything looks good. We’ll do a swab, check for any abnormalities and sexually transmitted diseases.”

The door opens, the security guard entering the room. He shuts the door, standing just inside like he’s supposed to be there.

“I don’t want to.”

You sound pathetic. Weak.

Dr. Roe side-eyes the guard. “Can you wait outside. Please.”

“Protocol—”

“I’m aware,” she interjects. “Wait outside.”

“I’ll have to file a report.”

“Then file a report.”

He leaves with a grumble. “I’m so sorry,” she sighs. “This entire process isn’t pleasant, and they certainly don’t make it easy.” She settles on her stool. “You had an examination like this before, yes?”

You nod.

“It’s the same thing,” she says with sweet reassurance. “I won’t do anything different. I’ll talk you through everything I’m doing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

It takes all of three minutes. And then it’s two days of silence. Just you in your room with your meals brought to you.

“Congratulations!” You sit up in bed as Dr. Roe bursts through the door. “You’re clear!”

“I’m—oh.” Standing just inside the doorway is Lieutenant Riley. “I’m free to go?”

“Yes,” replies Ghost just as Dr. Roe says “no.”

She shoots him a look. “You’re free to go from here,” she corrects. “But Lieutenant Riley is going to escort you to the Commander.”

“To the who?” you ask, looking toward Ghost for guidance.

“We’ll talk on the walk,” he says firmly.

Dr. Roe’s smile doesn’t faulter. She’s a beaming ball of energy as the three of you return to the grey door you entered from.

“Good luck,” she whispers, waving.

You step outside and into the dark.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” you state, turning on him.

“It’s exactly…” Ghost checks his watch. “0300 hours.”

With an annoyed growl, you punch his chest. “Fuck! Why are you so solid?”

“You listened to me, dove,” he says, voice full of affection.

“It was five fucking days! Five!” You punch him again and wince. “You could have warned me!”

“You’d bolt.”

“I might have,” you admit. “But that is not the point.”

“Still hate me?” he asks, a little croon in his question.

You ignore him. “And who is this ‘commander?’” You make quotation marks with your fingers. “Is he the man in charge?”

“No,” replies Ghost, that sweetness in his tone evaporating.

“Then who is he?”

“An arrogant wanker with a title,” he mutters.

Oh. This is interesting. “Since you hate him, does that mean he’s on my side?” It’s a tease. A poke.

“If you find something redeemable about Commander Graves, keep it to yourself.”

You hold up your hands in a placating gesture. “Heard, Lieutenant.”

As your hands drop, Ghost grasps them, pulling you against his hard body. His shoulders hunch forward, creating an intimate barrier from the outside world. It’s just the two of you beneath the awning, obscured by the flapping tarp.

“What comes next?” you ask, energy deflating slightly.

“I take you to Graves. You’ll talk. Then you go to your new home.”

“My home?”

“Yes.”

“Is that with you?”

Ghost lowers his head, the fabric of the balaclava brushing against your cheek. “It can be.”

“That’s not what I want,” you breathe.

“Stop lying to yourself, dove.”

“You don’t know me,” you murmur. “This morning meant nothing.”

Ghost grasps the back of your neck, cradles your cheek. The balaclava presses against your lips. You feel the outline of his mouth beneath.

“You’ll want me,” he states with such confidence you almost believe him. “In time, you’ll want me.”

Chapter Text

“Have a seat.”

Commander Graves gives you a warm smile but there’s something off about it, like milk that’s about to go sour.

“Thank you,” you reply stiffly, staring just past him so you don’t have to look him in the face.

On the wall behind Commander Graves is a massive map of the world framed by file cabinets, shelving, and informational posters about “staying vigilant to suspicious activity.” On the map, there are no labeled countries. Only the continents and bodies of water are named. Amongst the land masses are different colored stars, roughly eight variations in total. There’s a singular gold one on the map where you currently are. The rest might be other safe zones.

Placing a hand on the back of his chair, Graves waits until you’re completely seated before sitting down himself. A plain file folder sits on Commander Graves’ desk. On the tab is your name. You feign indifference, retaining a neutral expression as Graves settles and opens the folder.

Commander Graves runs his tongue over his teeth, lips pursing slightly as he reads whatever is on the page in front of him. Another stranger—one that Ghost expressed disdain for last night yet refused to elaborate on.

“Medical came back clear,” he states, breaking the silence. “No parasites or diseases. Blood work is normal.”

No small talk then. Right to business.

Graves glances up from the file folder. “Won’t have to deworm you,” he chuckles.

Fucking gross.

Only a few words and you already dislike him.

The paper is turned, and Graves continues to read aloud. “Administered vaccines. Good.” He flips another page. “Psych eval came back not crazy.”

Arrogance. It’s weaved through Commander Graves’ tone, dampened only by his southern drawl. If this were Ghost, you’d have a snarky remark ready to fire off. But you know better than to set a man like Commander Graves off. This is someone with authority—much more than Lieutenant Riley.

Flipping through the remaining pages, Graves returns to a previous one, his gaze narrowing slightly as he takes a closer look. “Mild dehydration. Malnutrition. That’s common.” He pauses. “Have all your teeth. Not as common.”

It’s a checklist.

You might not be a science experiment but you’re not a human being either. More like cattle. A farm animal. A number on a sheet. Results on a page.

Flipping the paper over, Graves scans the page. He whistles, lips twitching with a hint of an amused smirk. “And fertile. The family planner will love you.”

Like a car without oil, your thoughts grind to a halt. Neurons tumble over themselves—stuttering for purchase as they try to process his words.

You voice goes high, cracking at the end. “I’m sorry? The family planner?”

Graves leans back in his chair, taking the results with him. “You’re of childbearing age. Healthy.” He shrugs. “One of the pillars of the mandate is repopulation.” The words fall from his lips casually, almost without motive and simply a statement of fact.

Your mouth hangs open, and you’re unable to formulate anything coherent. It is a waterfall inside your head or a tumultuous river that breaks its banks. Flooding. You are flooding. Drowning. Sinking below where there is no hope of oxygen.

Lieutenant Riley must have known. How could he not? Just a few days ago he pulled you from the Humvee and told Captain Price you were there because of the mandate. Did he bring you here knowing this? Was this his intent all along?

You’d look so pretty full of me.

Fucking breed you until you’re dripping.

Put a baby in you. Then you’d truly belong to me.

A growing sickness blooms in your gut, twisting and coiling until you’re numb everywhere.

Graves is still talking, moving along as if you’re not ramrod straight and silent, likely staring off into space.

“Too fast and we’ll run out of resources,” he drones. “Things become…unstable. Too slow and we don’t keep up.” Commander Graves waves his hand dismissively. “We have doctors and scientists who handle that.”

There is only one thing on your mind. “And the family planner?”

Graves answers with an assertiveness that’s almost insidious. “You’ll talk with them.”

No maybe. No choice. A simple statement but it is entombment. Nothing to him but a cage to you. That’s how all men are because they don’t have to care. They sow their seed wherever they want and don’t think about what happens after.

You shake your head as if that is enough of a protest—as if that will change anything about your situation. “And if I don’t want kids?” you ask. “What happens then?” Panic creeps in, whispering about how you’ll be nothing more than a brood mare.

Graves appears unperturbed by your question, like he’s heard it all before. Many times. “They’ll be pushy,” he confirms. There is no elaboration, and that only stokes the panic to an inferno.

“But will I have to?”

This is what you need answered. Not that someone will suggest you do or that someone may or may not talk to you about potentially having a baby for the sake of humanity’s survival.

Not only that, but who will be the father? Is that a choice? Or will they make that decision for you?

Commander Graves snorts like the idea is absurd. “We’re not animals. You have rights.”

The panic does not extinguish. You had rights before the world went to shit, and yet some women didn’t have the option to choose whether they wanted to start a family. Having rights means nothing if personal autonomy has restrictions.

You recede slightly as the hope you still held melts away. “Will you go over those rights?” you ask, sinking into the chair, attempting to make yourself appear small.

It’s the first time you’ve been bold enough to ask a question without being startled into it. Anxiety is biting at your heels, but your anger and frustration are quickly rising. What you want is to lash out at Lieutenant Riley, to berate him for putting you in this situation. But you’re also upset with yourself for not trying harder, for not drawing more blood and seeking freedom.

This is his fault.

It is yours.

With a heavy sigh, Commander Graves leans toward the bottom of the desk, opening the lower drawer. Rummaging around for a bit, he eventually withdraws a slim brochure. Straightening, he holds it out to you. You tentatively take it, placing it in your lap.

The cover is light blue with white font. In the middle is the emblem of the United Nations. You open it. Promptly shut it. Mandate information. The “pillars.” It’s too much to process and you won’t lose your composure while you’re here with Commander Graves.

You glance up at the small American flag hanging near the ceiling. It’s on Commander Graves’ uniform too just below the flag of the United Nations. All black. No color whatsoever. It’s the one true consistency across all the soldiers’ uniforms.

“So, it didn’t collapse?” you ask, shifting your focus back to the man behind the desk.

Commander Graves pauses and looks up from the open file folder. “What didn’t collapse?”

You hold up the pamphlet. “The United Nations.”

Graves snorts. “Lots of things collapsed, sweetheart.” He nods toward the pamphlet. “Even that.”

“I don’t understand.”

Graves adjusts in his chair. “Whenever there’s a power struggle, something always gives. Creates a vacuum. Sometimes the structures in place can’t sustain themselves when that happens. They collapse. Fracture. They might rebuild or…” He snaps his fingers. “Cease to exist.”

Boldness fuels your next words, the need for answers driving you forward even as another urge tells you to hush. “Are there still countries?”

Graves demeanor changes, his mouth turning toward into a frown. “When people outside the safe zones are brought in, they usually know the answer to that question.”

“Sorry,” you mutter. “I was isolated for many years. I don’t recall much of what happened.”

Commander Graves inclines his head, appeased. “I’ll inform your advisor. Maybe we can get you up to date,” he smiles, offering pleasantness.

“And the advisor is different from the family planner?”

Graves clears his throat. Sniffs. “They’ll handle your transition.”

“Is that not what this is?”

“No,” he chuckles. “Think of me as…crowd control.” Commander Graves rests his elbows on the desk, hands spread as he talks. “I make sure the right people enter.”

You don’t like his implication.

“And I’m the right sort of people?”

“When Bravo team found you, they were on the hunt, tracking down a group that needed to be brought to justice.”

“That’s the sort you don’t want?”

“Exactly,” he grins, and there is nothing sweet in that smile. There is venom in it—a bit of bloodlust.

Closing the file, Commander Graves retrieves a yellow notepad and a ball-point pen from the top drawer of his desk. Placing it on top of the file folder, he flips to a fresh page, uncapping the pen lid.

“We need to discuss where you’ll fit,” says Graves, reclining in his chair, poised to begin filling in the lined paper. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

There is no reason to give him any extra effort. You remain quiet for the sole purpose of Graves to lead this conversation. If he wants anything from you, he’ll have to ask. To dig.

“Let’s talk about what you did before the world went to shit.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Was it my language?” he laughs as if you’ll somehow find that funny. When you remain aloof, he coughs. “What did you do for a living?” he responds dryly.

As little as possible. Minimal effort. That’s all. You can do this.

“I was a library assistant at a school,” you reply, adjusting in your seat. “Spent a lot of time around books.”

Commander Graves’ pen moves across the yellow notepad. “And after?”

A flicker of melancholy blooms in your chest. Thinking about the community you’ve known for nearly five years is a dark spot—a hole in which you won’t crawl out of. To mention them might bring potential harm to the people you care about most. You need to tread carefully.

“I was taken in by a small community. Built up their library. Restored and transcribed books. Worked with the children on their letters.”

There’s the briefest rise of his eyebrows before he quickly extinguished his surprise. “You were a teacher?”

“Sometimes,” you admit but not elaborating further.

“This is good,” nods Commander Graves. “We can use this.”

Not a person. An animal. A machine. They’re expecting contribution in womb and intellect. Your tolerance is quickly slipping, melting away like ice cubes in the sun.

Begging Lieutenant Riley to return you to your home proved fruitless, and you haven’t attempted to ask anyone else. Commander Graves isn’t a pleasant individual, but he has authority, and might agree to release you if you can convince him.

“I’m so sorry to ask this, Commander,” you begin, forcing yourself to appear small and vulnerable. Men like Graves like to feel the hero. “Lieutenant Riley didn’t give me the option to come to the safe zone. When I asked to be taken home, he ignored me.”

Not entirely a lie, but also not the truth. Ghost did answer you, many times, and it was always no.

Commander Graves’ nose crinkles in disgust. “You want to leave? Why would you want to do that?”

Shit. That is not the reaction you were after.

“It’s all I know,” you admit demurely. You even add a fluttering of your eyelashes.

It appears to work.

Commander Graves’ demeaner softens, that southern drawl of his thickening as he talks. “You have nothing to worry over. It’s clean here. Safe. Much better than where you came from.”

How the fuck would you know?

“But if there’s any way—”

The shift is instant. From pleasant southern gentleman to dangerous villain, Commander Graves loses all patience. “I think it’s best you forget about that place. This is your home now.”

Lieutenant Riley’s rejection was firm but gentle. He even showed you pity, surrendered to you when you were most vulnerable and offered his body. This is different. There is violence in it. Graves’ delivery is a promise that any continuation of this conversation will only result in harm coming to you.

You give a quick nod, drawing your gaze downward to avoid that menace. “Of course, Commander.”

Graves presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek. The silence stretches, and you dare a quick glance. The intent of violence is fading from his face, replaced with a sternness of a parent ready to chastise their child.

“Education and literacy are important to those in charge,” he says slowly. “That includes the preservation of human history.”

“There’s an archive here?” you ask, some hope and lightness returning to your voice. This is what you know—what you understand.

Commander Graves nods. “All the safe zones do to some degree. Ours is one of the largest, but it’s understaffed. A bit messy.”

“And you think that would be a good fit for me?”

Graves only shrugs. “I’ll make a note in your file.”

You watch as he scribbles something out on the notepad. Tearing it from its home, he tucks it into the file, scratching at his neck as he sets it aside.

“Just because I’ve cleared doesn’t mean you’re free to roam.” Graves relaxes into a more casual recline. “There is a thirty-day probationary period once you leave my office. During that time someone will be assigned to you. Escorting you around.”

Think it’s more like keeping tabs.

“To keep me out of trouble?” you ask.

“Look at it however you want, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You want to smack that condescending smile off his fucking face.

“But they’re here to help you learn your way around. Ask them questions. The transition from the outside into society is difficult for some. We want to make sure it goes smoothly. That you have everything you need.”

“That someone isn’t you?”

Please say no.

“No,” he chuckles. “I’m just here to give the final stamp of approval before you go past the wall.”

Thank fuck. Commander Graves is only a hurdle. There are people higher than him that he answers to. If you meet the right one, you might be able to leave this nightmare.

Graves leans forward and picks out a toothpick from a little holder on his desk, popping it into his mouth. “Lieutenant Riley is the one that claimed you at processing. You’re his responsibility during the probationary period.”

A familiar face. An anchor.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

The end of the toothpick rocks back and forth as Graves reaches for a handheld walkie. “Send in Lieutenant Riley,” he says into it before promptly placing it back on his desk.

Commander Graves is suddenly uninterested in you, grabbing another file from a nearby stack and opening it up to look inside. You are nothing more than decoration. It’s all awkward silence as Graves continues to ignore you. When someone knocks on the door, you nearly jump out of the chair and make a run for it.

“Come in,” calls out Graves.

The door opens wide. You sigh with relief.

Lieutenant Riley steps through, a looming but welcome presence. When his gaze lands on you, his brow softens, that familiar affection seeping in. But it is a fleeting moment. Maybe he senses your distress, or perhaps you appear frazzled because Ghost’s softness hardens. That stare is cold. Bitter. Yet it’s not for you. It slides to Commander Graves.

“She’s ready to go,” says Graves, not even looking up from his paperwork.

You’re being dismissed. Pushed aside.

You bolt up from your chair so fast you nearly knock it over. Ghost takes a step forward, extending his arm, and you go right to him. Stepping into him, he drapes his arm across your shoulders, ushering you from the room. Leaning into him is comforting—soothing. Yet it is also sharped and laced with stipulations you don’t entirely understand.

“Lieutenant,” you sigh as the door shuts.

“Hush,” murmurs Ghost. “Not here.” Behind the balaclava, his gaze sweeps up and down the hall. “Follow me. Quietly.”

It is pure instinct that tells you to hold on to his hand, fingers intertwining as you cling to him. Lieutenant Riley draws you close, keeping you tucked into his side. There is a dangerous bite in his eye, as if he’s daring the world to come and snatch you from him.

Possessiveness. Repeating.

Two more hallways. A stairwell. All of it in silence. If someone crosses your path, they quickly turn around upon seeing Ghost. When the two of you finally make it outside, it’s a breath of fresh air.

You close your eyelids and turn your face toward the sun. “Oh, I missed you.”

A shadow blocks your sunlight.

“Did you?” croons Ghost.

You open one eyelid. “I was talking about the sun.”

“Course you were, love.”

With a groan, you turn away from him. You make it about ninety degrees before Lieutenant Riley’s hand grasps your throat, forcing you back in his direction.

“I’m not in the mood to fight with you,” you murmur.

That whiskey-brown gaze glows with flirty intent. “But you love to hate me.”

“You think too highly of yourself,” you retort.

Lieutenant Riley’s gaze drops to your lips, lingering like he’s considering your mouth. It stirs a heat low in your belly. You’re forced back to that morning when you were beneath him and he stared at your body with adoration.

Ghost’s thumb brushes along your jaw. “Was he a bit of a wanker?”

“Graves?” you ask, and Lieutenant Riley hums in answer. “That’s an understatement. Can see why you hate him.”

“I’m sorry it was him.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “I’m a big girl. Can handle myself.”

Ghost’s grip eases, dropping away. “He’s a todger. Only cares about himself.”

Aren’t you the very same, Lieutenant?

You glance over Ghost’s shoulder at the looming wall. “He said you’re my minder.”

He shrugs. “For a bit.”

“Am I—” You pause, steadying your racing thoughts. “Am I staying with you?”

That flirty gleam returns. “You can.”

“No,” you say firmly, holding up a hand. “Just—just take me…” You trail off, unable to call this place home.

“Take you where you’re staying?” finishes Ghost.

“Yes,” you sigh, your relief palpable. “Please.”

The two of you weave between buildings and rows of frame tents that soldiers pop in and out off. Some glance your way, but no one approaches. It’s like before when you were taken to base. So many eyes on you but they all keep their distance. You stare ahead, not daring to make eye contact. Ghost remains at your side, the silent sentinel and guide.

Each step brings you closer and closer to the wall. Ghost navigates around a cluster of shipping containers, only for the two of you to step out into open ground. Between you and the wall is an electrified fence with barbed wire at the top. He comes to a stop at a set of heavy gates. You’re buzzed through, then escorted down a narrow opening before approaching another gate. You remain utterly silent as Ghost interacts with the guards. While they appear stern, they greet Lieutenant Riley with respect, not questioning why you’re with him.

An exchanging of words. Flashes of credentials.

“Welcome home, Lieutenant.”

You pass through the gate and beneath the wall. There’s daylight from the other opening, illuminating the short tunnel. Your heartbeat becomes thunderous, pounding so loudly it’s all you can hear. If Ghost is talking to you, you wouldn’t be able to tell. You’re on the verge of fainting—or fucking vomiting.

A few steps.

A few more.

Sunlight emerges, and you exit, finding—a city. At least, part of a city. It’s clear that the street you’re on was once a downtown area based on the building sizes alone. They’re all multi-level, jutting toward the sky. But they are only that: buildings. Plain. Simple. The architecture boring and modern.

Several military jeeps roll by, but there are no other vehicles.

Is this the safe zone? Is this all there is?

“Where are we going?” you ask tentatively.

“That building,” points Ghost, indicating a gray multistoried building with windows at even intervals. “Not far.”

“I don’t get a tour?”

“Not today, dove,” replies Ghost, moving ahead.

The only other people on the street are those in uniform. Some are by themselves. Others in pairs or groups. At street level, all the buildings have store fronts. There are bars, a couple of dining establishments, several barber shops, and what might be a pharmacy.

“Where are we?” you inquire, looking around at all the men in uniforms.

“Military housing,” answers Ghost.

“So I am staying with you?”

“No. You’re not staying with me.”

You increase your pace in order to keep up with his long strides. “Then why are we here? I’m not military.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re a civilian.”

“Then why am I not staying with the civilians?”

Lieutenant Riley glances at you. “Probation.”

“You have to be fucking joking,” you mutter.

“I’m not.”

“That was rhetorical,” you snap sharply as you approach the building you’re staying in.

Ghost punches a code into the keypad of the exterior door. It buzzes loudly, the handle giving easily under Ghost’s touch. He steps to the side to allow you to pass through.

You peer up at the winding stairwell. “No elevator?”

“If there was do you think we’d be taking the stairs?” he replies dryly.

“Asshole,” you whisper, following behind him.

It’s only six flights before Ghost yanks open the landing door, revealing a warmly lit hallway with carpeted floors. The doors are numbered but they don’t mean anything to you. You simply echo Lieutenant Riley’s footsteps. At the end of the hall, he takes a left, only to stop at a door that says “317.”

Withdrawing a key, he slides it into the deadbolt lock. A turn. A click. The door gives. Ghost pushes it wide and backs up, extending his arm in invitation. You lean forward, peering in.

“Go on,” he urges.

You take a step inside onto wood floors. A few more and Ghost enters, the door shutting behind him. It’s an apartment. And it’s barren. Plain. In the living room is a worn sofa and brown side table underneath a set of windows. There is nothing in the kitchen expect a white fridge and a stove that looks like it’s from the eighties. Nothing hangs on the walls. No art. No pictures. No character. You don’t dare go into the bedroom.

“There’s nothing here,” you state.

“Course not. You don’t own anything.”

A suppressing stuffiness settles in, forcing the air from your lungs until you feel lightheaded.

“There aren’t any books. Not even paper. What am I supposed to do in here?”

“Like I said, you don’t own anything.”

“And I just…stay here?” you ask, some of the shock leaking into your tone.

“Yes.”

You turn on Lieutenant Riley. “I’m a prisoner.”

“That’s not true.”

“But I can’t fucking leave.”

Ghost’s tone is neutral. “Not without me.”

You extend your arms outward. “But you won’t always be here. With me.”

“I can be,” he purrs.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Ghost shrugs. “It’s temporary. When the thirty days are over, you’ll move to the civilian area.”

“This isn’t my home.”

“It’s temporary,” repeats Ghost.

“This isn’t my home!”

Lieutenant Riley stares at you, unmoving. Fuck, you want to punch him, or maybe scream if that’ll make him understand. You think you’ll break—look away. But he does, walking away from you and into the kitchen.

“Probably didn’t stalk the pantry,” he grumbles as he starts opening cabinets.

You’re not thinking about food. You’re not thinking about anything except the fact that this barren fucking apartment isn’t yours.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” you ask, voice breaking as your eyes begin to water. “Do you know what you’ve taken from me?”

Lieutenant Riley ignores you. “There’s nothing in the bloody fridge either.”

“Are you listening to me?” Ghost shuts the refrigerator door but his hand remains on the handle. “Look at me, Lieutenant.”

It’s a slow shift. A slight turn.

“I had a home.” You gesture to the empty space around you. “This isn’t a home.”

“I told you it’s temporary.”

You step forward, a twisting fire growing in your chest. “I had a home,” you repeat. “A house. Not…this.”

Ghost remains silent.

“It had a porch with a hammock. The walls were covered in floral peel-and-stick wallpaper that Zac scavenged from a hardware store on one of his many runs. My bedroom window looked out over our community garden.” Grief comes rushing back, slamming into you. “I spent my days surrounded by books. Surrounded by people that love me.”

Ghost is still. Unmoving.

“This isn’t a home, Lieutenant.”

He finally drops his hand—finally moves. “I told you I couldn’t take you back.”

“You didn’t even try!”

Ghost strides forward, each step purposeful and slow like a predator approaching prey. “You don’t understand yet. But you will.”

You shake your head, the tears becoming real, stinging your cheeks.

“Get out,” you whisper.

“Dove—”

“Get the fuck out!”

When Ghost remains where he is, you cry out in frustration. If he won’t leave, you’ll separate yourself from him. Every pounding step is cathartic. Slamming the bedroom door feels even better. And there’s a goddamn lock.

Ghost does not come to the bedroom door. He does not attempt to open it. There is only silence on the other side, and your violent sobs.

You don’t remember when you drift off. You only remember waking and that the sun has dipped below the wall, darkening the room. Hesitation clings to your muscles, keeping you in bed a bit longer until you find the courage to peel yourself off the duvet. With shaking breath, you disengage the lock, opening the door just enough to peek out.

Lieutenant Riley is gone. The apartment is empty.

And yet that only worsens your mood.

Your feet drag as you emerge from the bedroom, unsure of what you’re supposed to do now. Sit around? Sulk? It’s not like you can distract yourself. For all you know there isn’t even cleaning supplies, and Ghost insinuated that there isn’t any food. You literally have nothing.

The decision to return to bed is instant.

Rubbing at your eyes, you turn back toward the bedroom door. A glint catches your eye from over by the window. Frowning, you move forward, and then come to a dead stop.

The previously empty side table is no longer empty.

There are books. An entire series if you’re reading the spines correctly. Beside it is a small handheld radio with a slot for a cassette tape along with a few musical options from the late eighties and early nineties. Next to that are two gently worn wordsearch workbooks and a couple of sharpened pencils, tiny sharpener included.

Tears come yet again, and you hate that they do. You hate that you wipe at your eyes, knowing that you’re not angry at all in this moment even though you wish that you were.

You asked Ghost to listen.

And he did.

Chapter Text

“Thank you for joining us today.”

Not like I had a choice.

Rays of afternoon sunlight shine through the slots in the open blinds, casting everything in a golden glow. The two individuals sitting across from you smile warmly, not a hint of deception in their gazes. Charles, your transitional advisor, cleans the lenses of his glasses, holding them up for inspection. Beside him is Joann, your family planner, wearing tan slacks and a blue long-sleeved turtleneck. She’s pencil thin—dainty, silver hair combed smooth.

“Glad to be out of the apartment,” you reply, returning the smile.

It’s no lie. A week since you’ve had your meeting with Commander Graves, and you spent it all locked away in your little apartment. Lieutenant Riley brought food, filling the fridge and cupboards, but you refused to speak with him whenever he attempted to make conversation. Thankfully, he never pushed, not until this morning. Ghost insisted, continuously knocking on your bedroom door until you finally yanked it open in irritation.

Joann’s smile widens. “Charles tells me the two of you discussed stationing you at the archive.”

“We did,” you confirm.

“How lovely,” she sighs. “They’ve been understaffed for ages.” She glances at Charles. “The library certainly needs it.” Charles returns his glasses to his face, inclining his head at Joann’s statement but not verbally agreeing.

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “As you know, I’m one of the family planners here.”

“Commander Graves mentioned someone might want to talk to me,” you reply slowly, already wanting to flee.

The conversation with Charles just before this was polite and straightforward. He read over Graves’ notes, asked some follow up questions pertaining to the work you did before the world collapsed and what you did after. He agreed that working in the archive and library was a perfect fit. Simple. Easy. No strings.

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” continues Joann, that smile softening in understanding. “Now I’m not at all sure what he told you, but knowing him, I doubt he provided any assurances.”

Hardly.

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Commander Graves didn’t exactly make for pleasant conversation.”

Charles chuckles and then quickly clears his throat, covering his laugh.

Joann shakes her head. “I can imagine. While I don’t know what he said to you, I don’t want to alarm you or cause you any distress. There is nothing to worry about. It’s simply standard procedure. Everyone who meets the requirements for repopulation must talk with a family planner.”

“Everyone?” you ask with a hint of doubt.

“Everyone,” she says. “Personally, I think it’s easier to start this whole process when you first meet with your transitional advisor. Better than bringing you back multiple times for meetings. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You only give a half-hearted smile.

Joann opens the folder in front of her. “According to your medical results during intake, you’re surprisingly healthy.” She glances up. “Given the fact that you were on the other side of the wall for so long.”

“I take it most people are in worse shape?”

She sighs and clicks her pen. “Some are like you, but most aren’t.” Joann makes a note on the paper. “But with what I can see here, I see no barriers in you starting a family. If that’s something you want to do.”

You haven’t forgotten what Graves said to you—how blunt he was about your fertility, “Commander Graves said that repopulation is one of the pillars of the mandate.”

“It is.”

“Then it’s not optional.”

“Family looks different for everyone,” replies Joann, flipping a page over in the folder. “I’m here to help you figure out what that looks like for you.”

“And what if I don’t want a family?”

That easy smile fades. Her lips become pinched, eyes narrowing slightly as she stares. Charles coughs again, dispelling the tension.

Joann taps the stack of papers in her lap. “I have some informational packets for you. A few things for you to look over. It covers all the different options. The benefits of starting a family. Larger families receive better, roomier housing. That I can tell you is not based on income.”

“Money doesn’t exist here,” interjects Charles. “Not in the traditional sense.”

It’s all an exchange. Allowances. You still don’t entirely understand it.

“Yes, well,” sighs Joann. “At the moment, I would discourage you from engaging in any sexual activity at this time. At least the type that might result in potential conception.” This time she laughs, and it nearly borders on hysterical.

Charles’ round cheeks go bright pink.

“Is—is there no birth control?” you ask, suddenly fearful.

You hoped that they would at least have something. If not, you’d have to reach into your knowledge of mixing different plants to stave off pregnancy.

“Oh, there is,” affirms Joann. “But since you’re new and under probation, it’s not something you currently have access to.”

You nearly scoff. “I’m also not interacting with anyone.”

They have you isolated and in military housing. How would that even happen?

Joann blinks, clearly surprised. “Lieutenant Riley?”

Does she—do they—

Oh. Oh, shit.

You nearly choke. “What—what about Lieutenant Riley?”

“He escorted you here.”

“And?” you prompt, not understanding what she’s insinuating.

That time at the military base comes rushing back, submerging you in memory. As if he’s in the room with you, his scent invades, twisting around you until your heart thuds with anticipation.

She shrugs, her smile soft. “I can see the appeal. Broody. Mysterious.”

“Tall,” adds Charles. “Muscular.”

Joann nods with appreciation. “He also claimed you at processing. And you spend a great deal of time alone with him. One can only assume—”

“There’s nothing happening between us,” you snap, shutting the idea down immediately.

This is ground you will not tread. You and Lieutenant Riley have had your moments, but he is not an option. No one is an option. You plan on going home—of leaving this place and returning to what you know.

Joann and Charles exchange a look. With a slow sweep of her arm, Joann tries to aim for calmness. “I understand that this is a delicate conversation. I have no wish to alarm you. I only want to gauge your interest.”

“I have no interest.”

“In giving birth?”

“In any of it.”

Her expression remains passive, as if your refusal doesn’t fluster. “There are lots of options.

“What if I like women?” you ask.

“That’s not an issue,” answers Joann. “There are plenty of children you can foster or adopt. We can also discuss the possibility of insemination. IVF isn’t possible since some of that knowledge was destroyed. But you and your partner can select a sperm donor together and we’ll…”

“Turkey baster their sperm into me?” you deadpan.

Charles face goes bright red. He coughs—chokes. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, pounding on his chest. Joann places a hand on his shoulder as he grabs a tissue.

“And what if I don’t want to marry at all? Or date?”

“As I said, family looks different for everyone. We can work around your needs.”

This conversation is a circle. Joann has a fucking explanation for everything. Even insisting that you don’t want a partner—that you aren’t interested in any of it—and yet there is a solution given instead of respecting your wishes. Joann might be pleasant in her demeanor, but the messaging is fucking clear.

You lick your lips, agitation buzzing in the tips of your fingers. “Is this something we can discuss at a later time? It’s…a lot. To take in.”

Joann’s features soften into maternal worry. “Of course. This is just a preliminary meeting. I’m here to introduce myself. To meet you. Provide any reading materials to help you understand all your options.” She closes the folder in front of her and sets it aside. “The main responsibility of every citizen is to help fulfill the pillars of the mandate.”

Pillars. Testaments. Sanctions. Laws. They can call it whatever they like but it’s all the same. A trap. A cage. The informational pamphlet that Commander Graves gave you about the mandate and the “pillars” is still on the coffee table. Untouched. Likely with a thin layer of dust over the top. You couldn’t bring yourself to open it at all this week.

A question forms out of resentment. “Even you?”

Joann doesn’t faulter. “Even me. Even Charles. Even Lieutenant Riley. Even Commander Graves. They all must contribute.”

“But they’re military,” you argue. “They have different duties.”

Joann inclines her head. “They have military duties. We do not. But they also have to fulfill their duties as civilians of the world. When the mandate become law during the Peace Accords, it dictated this. Everyone follows them. Including those that oversee the well-being and functionality of each safe zone. Even those elected to office. Even those at the very top. They all contribute.”

Belief and truth are fickle when the narrative is controlled. You don’t entirely believe the words leaving Joann’s mouth. Does everyone contribute? Probably. At least, in some capacity. But certainly not to the extent that she perpetuates. People at the top like to hold on to power. They like to control the means of production, of ordering others around. They might follow what the pillars state, but only to the extent that it benefits them. Humans are only human after all.

Yet this is also information you’ve been seeking, a window into this new world, but also whether or not you’ll have full autonomy of yourself. It appears that you will not. They aren’t going to force you. No one will drag you from your apartment, tie you up, and hand you over for someone to breed. But they are expecting you to reproduce. They are expecting which means they will push just as Commander Graves said they would.

How much control will you really have? And what will become of you when they finally tire of your reluctance.

“The apartment is lonely,” you muse.

“The probationary period always is,” agrees Joann.

You give her a cordial smile “The reading material will be nice.”

She beams. “That’s good to hear. After the probationary period is up, and you move to civilian housing, we can speak on this further.”

You hold that smile, hating every second. “No reason to rush into things.”

“I agree. Making big discissions like this requires a lot of thought and certainty.” Joann stands and holds out a folder to you. “But that’s why I’m here.”

“Not going to scream at me?”

“No.”

“Tell me to leave?”

“No,” you repeat, staring out your apartment window. Below, a military Jeep rumbles by. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

Ghost lingers near the kitchen, a stoic entity cloaked in shadow. You sit on the worn sofa, your legs tucked under you, arms resting on the back as you watch two soldiers on the street below playfully push at one another.

A floorboard creaks as Ghost steps toward you. “What did they talk about?” he asks, tone neutral.

You snort as a third soldier runs up and dunks on them, the trio tumbling into a heap on the pavement. “You don’t know?”

“It’s different for everyone,” he replies.

Interesting. Maybe Lieutenant Riley has had similar conversations before. Joann did mention that even he had to contribute to the pillars, and that includes repopulation.

You sigh heavily, not wanting to say it out loud but knowing that you can say something to Ghost. “They want me to have a baby.” You glance over your shoulder and find Ghost next to the coffee table, staring so intensely at you it sends a shiver of anxiety up your spine.

“What?” you prompt, suddenly nervous.

Why the fuck is he looking at you like that?

His question comes out a growl. “Did they assign someone to you?”

Your voice cracks—goes high. “They can assign someone?”

Lightening quick, Ghost snatches up the folders. He opens the first one, flipping through the pages erratically, dropping it onto the table and moving to the next. Like the first, he tears through it, the middle of his brow a deep v. That folder lands on the coffee table, the contents spreading everywhere.

“Who did they assign to you?”

His voice is still a growl. Still…territorial.

“No one?”

He steps toward you. “You don’t know?”

You swing your arm wide. “They didn’t say!” you exclaim. “It was just an introduction. No one said outright that they assigned someone to me. She only handed me that.” You gesture toward the folders and their scattered contents.

Ghost’s shoulders heave, clear agitation in the way he carries himself. “The family planner didn’t say anything else?”

You roll your eyes. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” he snarls.

“You know what,” you mutter. “Now that you mention it.” Turning away from the window, you give Lieutenant Riley your full attention. “She specifically said I shouldn’t engage in any…activity.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What sort of activity?”

You shrug. Give a little wave of your hand. “You know.”

“I don’t.”

Shit.

You inhale deeply. “She told me not to have sex. To not do anything that might result in a potential conception. And then she very directly mentioned you.”

Lieutenant Riley’s shoulders soften. That irritation melts away, a sultry swagger entering his body. “Did she?” he purrs.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand in a “stop” gesture.

Ghost takes a step forward. Another. “She only said the kind that could result in,” his gaze scans your body slowly, “conception.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur as your clit pulses with need.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair how your body reacts to him. It’s only loneliness. Isolation. You’re craving human companionship. That’s all.

Ghost comes to a stop in front of you. Bending forward, he places one hand on the sofa beside your arm, balancing himself as he traps you against the couch.

“Like what?” he croons.

“I can tell you to leave,” you reply.

“Thought you didn’t want to be alone, love?”

“I don’t,” you snap. Lieutenant Riley leans in further like he’s going to kiss you through the balaclava. “But I don’t want…that.” You wave your hand in front of his face to ward him off. “So, if you could control yourself, Lieutenant. That would be great.”

He pushes off from the sofa. “You want to sit in silence?”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, glancing away. “No,” you admit. “I—I have questions.”

Ghost nods, easing himself down on the sofa beside you. “And you want answers.”

“Is that okay?” you ask.

Lieutenant Riley settles, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He turns his head toward you, eyelids soft. “What will you give me in return?”

You scoff. “This again? I can’t believe you. I thought we were past this.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Information is valuable.”

You run your tongue over your teeth. It’s not like you exactly hate this back-and-forth. “Fine,” you lament. “What do you want?”

“What are you willing to give?”

“A slap in the face,” you retort, regretting playing into this.

Lieutenant Riley chuckles. “Think that might do the opposite of what you’re expecting it will.”

“You know what,” you blurt, shifting onto your knees. “Fuck it. Fine.”

Ghost cocks his head in curiosity as you lean forward, pushing up from where you’ve been seated. Maybe he expects you to walk away, to storm off into the bedroom, and slam the door. It’s what you’ve done all week.

But that curiosity morphs into surprise when you drop into his lap, straddling him.

“You want me?” you breathe, fisting the top of his balaclava. You give it a yank. “You can have me.”

Grasping the side of Lieutenant Riley’s neck, you dive in. There is no hesitation from him. He accepts you, hungrily, hips grinding upward into you, pressing his erection against your sex. The bulge in his pants bumps against your clit through the fabric, eliciting a little gasp from you. That pulsing heat from earlier intensifies—becomes scorching.

Ghost is the only one you can release all this pent-up energy on. He eagerly takes it all, even the anger, even your fists and teeth and claws. It’s cathartic. Freeing. And while you’ve hated what has happened to you, and what he’s done to put you into this situation, Ghost has never judged you for any of it.

Not once.

Fingers moving upward, they thread through the wisps of hair at the base of Ghost’s skull. You cling on, seeking more—wanting to consume more. Lieutenant Riley’s hands stroke up and down your thighs, sliding back to squeeze your ass.

It’s like before, that morning on the military base. The connection is a sizzling pan full of oil that’s close to smoking. Ghost groans against your lips, his arms encircling, drawing you close to him. You surrender, seeking that bit of comfort, rocking your hips with the intent of grinding down on that growing hardness.

Ghost pulls back suddenly, grasping the front of your throat when you try to continue kissing him.

“You said you can’t fuck.”

“I—I don’t want to.”

His thumb presses against your pulse point. “You nearly did. Once.”

No. No. You’ve fucked up. Again, you’ve fucked up.

“I want out of your lap,” you whisper.

“Thought you had questions?”

“I do.”

Ghost’s gaze drops to your lips, admiring the puffy swell. “How about I have a taste between your thighs.”

“Lieutenant,” you gasp as his lips brush against your cheekbone.

“And in between licks, I’ll answer your questions.”

“Let me go,” you say, still sounding breathy.

Ghost tuts. “Pity. I’d really enjoy a taste.”

Your fingers drop away from his neck, moving toward the front of his black fatigues. “Why were you so upset when you asked me if they had assigned someone to me?”

The subject change is abrupt but on purpose. You need to reevaluate. To shift your focus away from the throbbing need between your thighs.

“I was offended they didn’t make me an offer.”

“You—” you stammer, blinking rapidly. “So, I really am just an object to you? A thing to possess?”

Ghost shakes his head. “No.”

With a growl, you shove at him, slamming your fists into his chest. Ghost holds tight, allowing you no space. “You’re staying right here.”

“Bastard,” you sneer. You go for a slap this time but without the space to bring your hand back, it’s a feeble attempt. “Let me go.”

“If I touched you between your legs, what would I find?”

“A desert,” you retort, wiggling in his lap with the hope his grip might slip.

“Doubt that,” croons Ghost.

“You’re fucking infuriating.”

Lieutenant Riley places a ghost of a kiss against your cheek before retreating. “You want me. Don’t deny it.”

You stare him down, pushing all your sorrow and venom into your voice. “I won’t deny that I’m lonely,” you admit, because it’s true. Solitude clings to you. “And you’re…someone.”

Someone. A person. Meaningless.

That sultry intensity in Lieutenant Riley’s gaze vanishes. Like a tap turned off, it’s an instant shift. In its place is an unreadable neutrality that paralyzes you. All this time, you’ve wanted your words to cut—to draw blood.

He lifts you off his lap and dumps you onto the sofa without ceremony.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, pushing up onto your hands and knees. Ghost is already walking away, heading for the door. At his rank, he does not stir. “Ghost,” you try, and he freezes.

The balaclava dangles from his fist. “I’m no longer in the mood.”

You flinch as the door slams shut.

Chapter Text

United Nations Preservation of Humanity Charter (UN Mandate I)

Pillar I: Genetic Continuity: All citizens capable of reproduction must contribute to the gene pool unless medically exempt.

Pillar II: Historical Memory: Each Safe Zone and its civilians must preserve human history, language, and art, ensuring no generation forgets humanity’s origins.

Pillar III: Weapons Compact: All Safe Zones are forbidden from producing, obtaining, or trading weapons of mass destruction without prior UN Council approval. Military force may be used only under UN mandate to prevent genocide or extinction-level threats. The production or attainment of firearms, explosives, projectiles, blades, or any instrument of war by civilians is prohibited.

Pillar IV: Bioethics: Non-consensual testing on humans is prohibited. Artificial intelligence, cloning, and biotechnology is outlawed unless authorized by UN Council and must prioritize long-term human well-being.

Pillar V: Reintegration: No persons may be denied sanctuary in a Safe Zone on the basis of origin, gender, or religious belief. All survivors have the right to seek safety and sustenance.

Pillar VI: Equity of Resources: Vital resources, such as water, food, medicine, and power, must be shared across Safe Zones under UN allocation protocols, and redistributed in times of shortage.

Pillar VII: Rewilding: Each Safe Zone and the citizens therein must preserve or restore a percentage of surrounding ecosystems to maintain biodiversity and prevent ecological collapse.

Pillar VIII: Cultural Sovereignty: Safe Zones and the citizens therein retain cultural autonomy, as long as that autonomy does not propagate ideologies that promote extinction, discrimination, or historical erasure. Minority cultures, languages, and traditions must be legally protected.

Pillar IX: Equal Dignity: All individuals, regardless of origin, ethnicity, religious belief, sexual orientation, or country of birth, are equal under the law and entitled to equal protection and opportunity.

Pillar X: Anti-Extremism: All Safe Zones and the citizens therein must report, identify, or otherwise notify the respective authoritative bodies of any organizations, groups, collectives, or movements advocating genocide, supremacy, or systemic subjugation.

You close the pamphlet, shutting out what you didn’t want to know but need to understand. The Preservation of Humanity Charter. Mandate I. Specific and yet entirely vague—open to interpretation. On the surface, nothing appears nefarious, yet you detect hypocrisy in it, that as you dig deeper and ask more questions, fractures will appear.

Your gaze shifts to the collection of reading materials the transitional advisor and family planner handed you when you departed. They stare back, mocking. With a sigh, you set the pamphlet down and reach for another. This one is black with white lettering. “Bill of Rights” is embossed on the front near the top of the thin booklet. In the middle is the emblem of the United Nations.

Opening it, you scan the introduction.

In recognition of the fragility of civilization and the enduring worth of all persons, the United Nations affirms the following rights and protections as universal and mandatory for all Safe Zones, Neutral Zones, governing bodies, and military authorities. These rights are preserved under The United Nations Preservation of Humanity Charter, Mandate III, in alliance with the global standards set forth by the United Nations Continuity Council.

You pause in your reading, mind drifting toward all that’s been lost. There was so much chaos when the structures in place began to collapse—when everything destabilized and devolved. No one believed that any of this would happen. When world leaders threatened one another and preached for isolationism, nothing seemed to come of it. People went to work, lived their lives, spent time with their friends and families.

Then came the trade wars, the tariffs, and sanctions. Even then, people only complained about rising prices and the cost of living. Land and border disputes followed. More empty threats where nothing happened, and the news cycle carried on. But one country put boots on the ground. Another did the same in retaliation. Like a faucet being slowly turned on, the droplets became a stream and then a current.

Article I – Right to Existence and Liberty.

All citizens have the right to life, dignity, liberty, and autonomy. No persons shall be subject to enslavement, forced labor, or arbitrary detention.

All “citizens.” You’re not a citizen—not yet. Where does that leave you? Will they grant you full status when probation is lifted?

Article II – Equality Under Law.

A loud, repeated thudding fills the room, coming from the front door. Clutching the thin black booklet, you head for the door, yanking it open, only to find Lieutenant Riley on the other side holding a cardboard box.

“You’re here early,” you blurt.

“Brought you something,” he replies, voice raspy but gentle.

Behind the balaclava, all you can see are his gorgeous brown eyes. There is no crease in his brow—nothing that indicates any emotion. Yet his shoulders are a tad slumped, almost as if he’s exhausted and would rather be in bed.

You step to the side, holding the door open enough for Lieutenant Riley to enter. Shutting the door, you follow behind him as he makes his way into the bedroom. Placing the cardboard box on the bed, Lieutenant Riley rests his hands atop it, silently observing you as you approach the box.

“You brought me something?” you ask with a hint of excitement.

Neutrality becomes softness. A flush of pink blooms at the edges of the balaclava. Ghost taps the top of the box and takes a step back, extending an arm in open invitation.

“Go on,” he urges.

Placing the thin, black booklet on the bed, you reach for the box with eager, itching fingers. Anticipation flowers in your stomach. Only days ago, Lieutenant Riley dumped you out of his lap and left, hardly giving you a glance as he walked out the door. Now, here he is, bringing you a gift.

You open the box and find an array of colors.

“Is this…” you trail off, reaching into the box, fingers gliding along soft fabric.

Lifting it from its home, you unfurl it. A sweater. Deep maroon by the color. The fit looks almost perfect. Holding the sweater off to the side, you peer down into the box.

“Have you brought me clothes?” you ask, almost choking on your words.

On your release from quarantine, you were given a single outfit. You’ve been rotating through two shirts and two pants the last two weeks. Placing the sweater on the bed, you start removing more items. There are tank tops, dress pants, and cardigans. There’s even a sundress. A wave of joy washes over you, drowning you in rapt glee as you retrieve more clothing items out of the cardboard box.

“I guessed on your size,” says Ghost as a mountain of clothes begins to form on the thin duvet. “Wasn’t sure about color. Or style.”

While the clothes are clearly second-hand, all of it is in good condition. You’ll have more than two shirts to wear. More than two pants. Ghost has brought you an entire wardrobe.

Gratitude explodes within you, bringing you to the brink of tears.

“I can exchange what you don’t like,” he continues, rambling on like he’s suddenly nervous. “If something is too big, can always have it resized.”

“Lieutenant,” you whisper, clutching a pair of black slacks to your chest.

“Do you like it?” he asks, taking a step toward you.

He sounds so eager—so hopeful.

Words form and then promptly leave your head, escaping into the air. So, you don’t speak. You walk around the corner of the bed, and push into Lieutenant Riley’s space. Placing your hand on his arm for support, you go up on your toes, pressing your lips to his balaclava-covered cheek.

“Thank you,” you murmur, squeezing his arm. “For thinking of me.”

Lieutenant Riley’s brow is soft and delicate. He leans in your direction, pure affection in his gaze. It’s startling, sending a rush of heat up your neck and a little flip of your stomach. You quickly drop your hand, backing up.

“You start at the archive today,” states Ghost that soft gaze following your every step.

“I do,” you exhale, smiling in his direction as you delicately fold a pair of jeans. “I’m excited to be around books again.”

“Should pick something out,” nods Ghost. “Look your best for the big day.”

“You’re right,” you grin. “I should.”

After a long deliberation and several spins for Lieutenant Riley’s viewing pleasure, you select a simple black dress with a forest green cardigan. It’s plain and comfortable but professional.

Ghost lightly tugs on the hem of the cardigan. “Fit all right?”

“It’s lovely,” you beam, shying away from how intensely Lieutenant Riley watches you.

It’s hunger but not lecherous in nature. Like dark water, you cannot see into his depths—you cannot begin to guess what he might be thinking. Yet you like the attention, and whatever animosity that lingered between the two of you from the other night is gone. Lieutenant Riley’s body language is relaxed and intimate. The man is in a good mood, and that contentment only heightens your own happiness.

You should enjoy this day. It’s a fresh start. A new beginning in the face of all that you’ve lost.

Ghost releases the cardigan, his arm returning to his side. “Ready?”

You nod. “Ready.”

Out on the street, Ghost escorts you toward a black SUV.

You come to a dead stop. “Is this yours?” you ask in disbelief. “People own cars?”

Ghost opens the front passenger door. “No,” he answers, stepping to the side to indicate that you should get in.

“No this isn’t yours? Or no people don’t own cars?”

“Yes.”

You poke him in the chest, but you’re grinning. “Don’t you dare,” you laugh.

“Dare what?” he replies in mock confusion.

You shake your head good-naturedly, sliding into the passenger seat. Ghost shuts the door, circling around the front of the vehicle to hop into the driver side.

You arch an eyebrow. “Why are you taking me to work in a non-military vehicle?”

“How do you know that?” counters Ghost, draping his arm across the steering wheel.

“So it’s a civilian vehicle?”

“Didn’t say that,” he says casually, leaning back in the seat, reaching into his pocket as he digs around for something.

You open your mouth. Shut it. Ghost chuckles, and you playfully smack his bicep with the back of your hand. Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, Ghost sets both in the middle console. The SUV roars to life, the floor gently rattling beneath your feet. Ghost checks the side mirror and shifts gears. The vehicle rolls forward, cruising slowly down the street.

Two weeks behind the wall and all you’ve seen is the inside of your temporary apartment, and a few surrounding streets. This is furtherment—a consolidation of what was and the exploration of possibilities. Home is behind you, though it dwells in your heart, and for now, you must make peace with your new reality. You must navigate this to your advantage, happiness, and well-being.

That is the core of survival after all. To carry on.

“Where is the archive?” you ask, peering upward through the windshield at the towering buildings.

“It’s inside the library,” answers Ghost, turning on his blinker as he rolls up to a stop sign. “In the civilian zone.”

“We’re going to the civilian zone?” Your voice is laced with excitement.

All you’ve known is grim-faced men and a militarized looming presence. This might just be your first real sense of normalcy in almost a month.

“We are,” replies Ghost.

You can’t sit still as the SUV shepherds the two of you along. Beneath your skin is a buzzing adrenaline. It pushes you to twist and turn, to try and absorb everything around you. The neutral greyness of the militarized zone starts to change, shifting toward greenery. Where there were only sidewalk, road, and buildings, trees and plants begin to appear at even intervals, adding a touch of color.

Ghost slows the vehicle at a small guard gate. The barrier lifts, and a guard waves the SUV through. The transition to the civilian zone is almost instantaneous—a whiplash. While there are several vehicles on the road, the majority are buses, and beside those in designated lanes are bicyclists and motorized scooters. No one walks around in uniform. It’s so…ordinary, and yet so strange, like you’ve been transported back to a time before the collapse or shoved into a parallel reality.

There is a communal quality to the way people move in groups or pairs. No one appears to be any hurry. Lieutenant Riley turns, and you nearly tell him to stop the car. You press your face to the glass, mouth agape as he drives by an open market.

As he takes another turn, you whirl around in your seat. “What was that? Can we stop there?”

Behind the balaclava, the skin around Lieutenant Riley’s eyes wrinkle, hinting at a hidden smile. “Another time,” he murmurs. “Promise. Don’t want to be late on your first day.”

You press yourself against the seat, head tilted in the direction of the window. While everything appears clean—utopian even—there is an underlying rawness, a wear and tear that can only come from age and lack of sufficient resources. Questions fire off in your head. There is so much you want to ask Ghost. If he weren’t so goddamn stubborn, you’d talk his ear off for hours. Instead, you sit still, toying with the hem of your dress as Lieutenant Riley guides the vehicle along.

A few more turns, and then you’re solidified, staring up in shock at the building before you.

“Oh my God,” you say aloud.

Lieutenant Riley snorts at your outburst.

The library’s front façade are book spines in various colors and titles. This is not a structure built in the collapse but from the time before, when libraries were receiving adequate funding, the government cared about knowledge, and learning was publicly free institution. The very center of the building, where the stone stairs meet the entrance doors, is a wall of glass, splitting the book spines into two sections.

“This is—This is amazing,” you gasp.

Ghost grunts in what must be an agreement. Either way, you don’t particularly care. This is a library, a place you never thought you’d see in all its glory again.

“Are you crying?” asks Lieutenant Riley, reaching across the center counsel to place his hand on your shoulder.

“Yes,” you hiccup, wiping away a wayward tear.

“What’s upset you?” He sounds genuinely worried, and that only makes you cry harder.

“I’m happy. I promise,” you say through a shaky breath.

The crease in the middle of Lieutenant Riley’s brow doesn’t abate. “Need to take a minute?”

You nod, sniffling, using the sleeve of the cardigan to absorb the remaining tears. “Just a bit overwhelmed.” Ghost nods but remains the quiet companion as you gather your composure. “I’m ready,” you murmur after a minute.

Lieutenant Riley leans away from you, fingers pressing against the door lock buttons. You hear the audible transition of the locks disengaging. Reaching for the handle, you take a deep breath, readying yourself for what’s to come.

The car door opens. Crisp, cool air rushes in. You inhale sharply, slipping from the seat, landing on solid ground. Glancing over your shoulder, you lock gazes with Lieutenant Riley. He gives a little nod, an encouraging inclination to go.

You raise your hand in the smallest goodbye, slamming the SUV door. Through the window tint, you watch him watching you. Backward step. A turn of your heel. Forward step by forward step. Stairs.

At the top, just before the glass doors, you turn one last time. Ghost is still parked at the curb. Waiting. This is a different version of him, a patient and caring Lieutenant Riley you haven’t seen before. He’s certainly flirted, found ways to comfort you, but there has always been distance—a separation. You consider this change as you enter the library, questioning whether Lieutenant Riley’s motivations are pure.

Who did they assign to you?

Why does it matter?

It matters to me.

The bit of joy that’s made a nest in you fractures. Small cracks. Tiny fissures. Not enough to notice but just wide enough to allow bitterness in.

I was offended they didn’t make me an offer.

Perhaps Lieutenant Riley’s motivations aren’t pure. It’s clear that he wants you to himself, but why? Why you when he could probably have anyone?

As you enter the library, you’re greeted by a warmly lit space, the interior all dark wood and polished stone. Overhead, you notice a balcony of a second story. All you can see of it are the tops of the shelves, but that isn’t what captures your attention. As you approach the front desk, you notice the lack of books on the shelves. Some are completely empty, others full. Most are partially stocked with sections of barren shelving, dust collecting in the corners.

You give your name at the desk, and the receptionist smiles.

“Follow me,” she says, voice soft and lyrical.

As the two of you head toward the back of the building, your awe becomes worry. Most of the lights are turned off back here. The bit of light it does receive comes from the main windows up front and a few skylights that cut through the middle of the second-story ceiling. Rope barricades close off endless rows of empty shelves. Destruction has not touched them. They are simply empty. Bones and broken skulls that once held neural gore.

“Through this door, dear,” says the receptionist, indicating a door that says, “Archival Department” and below that “Employees Only.”

“Thank you,” you reply, but she’s already off, shoes clacking against the marble.

You press your hand to the door, standing there in the muted shadows. Instinct is rising, whispering to run, to seek shelter in more familiar places. But there is nowhere for you to go. Even if you were to walk out the front door, Lieutenant Riley might not be out front, and you don’t know how to return to your apartment.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the door with the other hand on the handle. “Fuck.”

You have to do this.

You have to do this.

You have to—

Turning the handle, you shove it open, barreling through without looking where you’re going. You nearly take a tumble, righting yourself at the last moment. The door slam shuts behind you, and three pairs of eyes stare back.

“That’s certainly an entrance,” comes a masculine voice with a thick Irish accent.

A tall, lanky man with wire-thin glasses sits behind a plain wood desk covered in stacks of paper and various office supplies. His auburn hair has a touch of grey in it—messy too like he’s only just rolled out of bed. In his hand is a white mug with black lettering that says Yes, I really do need all these books.

“Hi,” you manage, raising your hand in greeting.

When he smiles, there is a fatherly touch to it. You instantly gravitate toward it. “I’m Arthur,” he says, rising from his chair and circling around the front of his desk, arm extended, hand offered in a handshake.

You give your own name, clasping his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re me new archivist.”

“I am,” you nod.

Arthur beams. “Welcome.” He turns to the other two people in the room. Both are women around your age give or take a year or two. “This is Hannah.” He nods toward a blonde with a head of tight curls. “And that is Eloise.”

“Hello,” they greet in unison, all smiles.

The room itself is a quaint office space. Along the far wall are large windows that let in natural light. There are four desks in total, three clearly belong to Arthur, Hannah, and Eloise. The fourth sits empty and must be yours. Beneath your shoes is worn, dark wood and the walls are an off beige with one accent wall in dark green. Pushed up against the three walls without windows are rows and rows of shelving, all of it packed and overflowing. A few of the wood shelves sag inward, threatening to collapse at any moment.

“Charles mentioned your experience,” says Arthur. He takes a drink from his mug. “We’re happy to have you. Too much work for three.” He chuckles. “Not that four will be much better.”

“I noticed all the empty shelves,” you reply, taking a leap in what he might be referring to.

He nods solemnly. “This library services the entire Safe Zone. You’d think they’d assign more staff.” Arthur shakes his head. “We can’t process all this material fast enough. Demand is high but we’re only three.” He lifts his coffee mug in your direction. “Four.”

“Staying busy sounds nice,” you reply, because it’s true. You need out of your fucking head. You need to be away from Ghost and from that apartment for a bit. “And books make me happy.”

Arthur nods. “Hopefully you’ll still love them as time goes on.” He clears his throat. “Now, about the job.”

An endless sea of information rushes at you. Eloise and Hannah float about the office, the two of them chatting in French as they rifle through paperwork. Arthur leaves them to it, taking you on a full tour of the office space and then into the library itself. You stay politely silent through most of it, asking questions when there are lulls. Meandering through the library, Arthur circles back to the office, bringing you to another door.

“Behind here,” he begins. “Is everything we have yet to duplicate.”

While walking through the library, Arthur explained the only books on the shelves were ones they already had duplicates of. There are plenty more where there are only singular copies. Some in pristine condition, others needing a reprint. But it’s not all physical. There are digital versions too that are sitting, waiting to be processed.

“It’s a maze in there.”

“I’m ready,” you smile.

Arthur opens the door, the two of you stepping inside. The quality of the air is immediately different. On the wall next to the door are several panels indicating temperature, air quality, and humidity. It’s all being monitored. But that’s not what shocks you.

Arthur wasn’t joking. The place is a fucking maze.

“What—what is all this?” you ask, turning toward him, gesturing at what can only be called a mess.

Arthur sighs, adjusting his glasses. “That is too much work for four people.”

There is no organization. To order in the chaos. It’s just rows of shelving, stacks of cardboard boxes and storage bins. There are even stacked books pressed up against the wall. A home was found, even that means home is on the goddamn floor.

“No kidding,” you whisper.

Just as Arthur opens his mouth, the door swings open.

“It’s lunch,” says Hannah.

Arthur checks his watch. “Look at that.”

“And someone is here for you,” adds Hannah, smiling in your direction.

“Me?” You point at yourself as if there might be another of you lurking in the stacks.

Hannah’s smile shifts, becoming a knowing smirk like she’s holding on to a little secret.

Arthur claps and pats his stomach. “Lunch is an hour. A full hour.” He winks. “We take that seriously around here.”

At the library reception desk, you find an unexpected visitor.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, approaching Ghost slowly. “Are we leaving?”

You don’t want to go. Only a few hours in and you’re eager to stay, to idle amongst the shelves.

In one hand, Ghost carries a soft-sided insulated cooler bag. Tucked under that arm is large blanket. The receptionists gaze lingers on the two of you, observing with abject curiosity. Ghost is in his all-black fatigues and balaclava.

“Thought I’d bring lunch,” he states.

“That’s kind of you,” you murmur, reaching for the blanket.

Ghost surrenders it without protest. “There’s a park across the street.”

You nod, clutching the blanket to your chest. “I’d like that.”

A few minutes later and you’re sitting on the blanket, soaking up the sun as Lieutenant Riley opens the cooler bag. He retrieves a glass bottle of water along with sandwiches, fresh fruit, and some cut raw veggies.

“Eat as much as you want,” sighs Ghost as he settles onto his back, arms tucked behind his head.

Unwrapping one of the sandwiches, you take a bite, chewing slowly. “Thank you.”

Lieutenant Riley glances at you. “You didn’t pack a lunch. Knew you’d be hungry.”

“Looking after me?” you tease.

“That’s my job.”

You snort and take another bite. As you chew, you pour yourself some water. It’s cold and crisp. Refreshing. “Didn’t work today?” you venture to ask.

“Work every day,” sighs Ghost. “Price doesn’t mind if I slip away for an hour or two.”

“Must be nice,” you murmur.

“First day treating you well?”

You nod, still chewing. Swallowing, you answer him. “It’s a good fit. Keep me busy.”

“Good.”

“Arthur is the Lead Archivist. And Irish. Hannah and Eloise speak French, but their accents are different.” You take another bite. “Pretty sure Hannah’s Canadian and Eloise is from France,” you muse. After a few seconds of silence, you continue. “Is that normal for all the Safe Zones?”

Ghost adjusts, stretching. “Is what normal?”

“Is it normal for people from different countries to all live in a Safe Zone together?”

Lieutenant Riley stares up into the sky. “It’s on purpose.” You start to formulate a follow-up question, but he carries on. “To dispel supremacy movements. Can’t gather support if the remaining population is scattered across hundreds of Safe Zones.”

“There are hundreds of Safe Zones?” Ghost nods but doesn’t elaborate. “How many exactly?” you probe.

“Just over two hundred.”

Two hundred? There aren’t even two hundred countries. You recall the map in Commander Graves’ office, of the different colored stars that dotted the unlabeled land masses. Of the stars, there were eight different colors, but now that you consider it, they easily could have been two hundred of them on it.

“Are they all large like this one?”

“No,” snorts Lieutenant Riley. “Most are small. Only a few dozen are the size of this one. Ten that are even larger.”

This is the most information Ghost has given you. He appears more open than before. Relaxed. You take another bite of your sandwich, knowing that you need to take advantage of this opportunity.

“Is that why the country flags are black on your uniforms?”

Like a sudden breeze that chills the bones, Lieutenant Riley’s demeanor shifts to a somber note. “Partially,” he answers, voice raspy. “Black flags used to mean something different. Now it’s a statement of grief and remembrance.”

“I don’t entirely understand,” you say softly, shifting closer to him. “There’s so much I don’t know. And no one is willing to talk to me about it. They just…stare at me like I’m dumb.”

You recall Commander Graves’ disgusted expression, and the aloofness you received from Charles. Joann didn’t acknowledge your lack of understanding either.

Ghost still stares into the sky. “Countries exist by law and not land. Borders don’t bloody matter when half a continent is devasted by warfare.”

A sourness blooms in your stomach, the food sitting heavy. “What about your home?”

“Habitable. But destroyed. The infrastructure is gone. All the major cities are craters.”

You reach out, placing your hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Lieutenant Riley finally looks at you, a sadness settling in his brow. “I’ll be fine, dove. Everyone I care about is here.”

You give his arm a little squeeze before retreating, fiddling with the paper wrapper your sandwich sits in. While you’d like more answers, it’s clear that this topic upsets him. Lieutenant Riley’s home is gone—obliterated. It’s not a pleasant topic for idle conversation.

“With the school attached, I might be asked to lead a writing or reading class. Maybe sub if someone is sick. Arthur mentioned that they try to go there once a week to help those students who are behind reading level.”

It’s an attempt to turn the conversation around, to divert Lieutenant Riley’s thoughts elsewhere. He takes it, some of that sadness receding.

“You interested in that?” he inquires.

You incline your head. “Yes. Did it all the time in my previous community.” Taking another bite of your sandwich, you chew thoughtfully. “But I wouldn’t call what we had a ‘school.’ Did our best though.”

Lieutenant Riley’s gaze is soft. There is a lightness to it, an affectionate edge that reminds you of this morning. You fluster under that stare, staring down at your lap.

“You’ll be brilliant,” he states with such confidence that you believe it too. A smile forms on your lips, spreading wide until your cheeks hurt. Lieutenant Riley rolls onto his side. “Can I kiss you?”

Startled, you blink rapidly. “I—” You giggle. “Yes.”

As you lean toward him, Ghost reaches out, grasping the back of your neck to draw you closer. With one hand on his chest, and the other pushing up his balaclava to reveal his lips, you don’t care if anyone is watching. The sweet connection is instant sunshine—a flowering of a season. Low in your core, a heat stirs.

Soft and slow, Ghost restrains himself, and that only fuels the desire swirling inside you. This is the Lieutenant Riley you like. The one you want to know. Even though you’ve been ripped from your home, you could make a new one here, with him, if only it were always like this.

“Dove,” he breathes against your lips.

That name he calls you. An endearment. You pretend to hate it, but the way he always says it with a husky tone sends you over the edge every time. It drives into your skull. Burrows in your bone.

“Need to take you back,” he whispers, nuzzling your cheek. You linger here, eyes closing as his thumb traces the underside of your bottom lip.

The walk back is silent but not awkward. You stand close to him, arms occasionally brushing against each other with the sway of your body. The urge to hold his hand is suffocating, but you resist. There is no relationship here—only a terrible back-and-forth that you cannot wrap your head around.

The rest of your workday is a blur. It’s combing the library catalog and organizing stacks of paperwork Eloise places on your desk. There is no clear organization. Most of the paperwork are inquiries from other Safe Zones, wanting to know if they have extra copies of certain materials. You do not touch anything in the storage room, but neither do Arthur, Hannah, or Eloise. It dawns on you then, that the work happening requires far more people than what’s been staffed.

When Lieutenant Riley comes to pick you up, you’re almost thankful. Exhaustion settles over you, and you don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep in the passenger seat until Ghost awakens you. Every step is a drag, and all you want is your bed.

With a groan, you flop onto the duvet. Beside you, the bed dips as Ghost sits.

“Are you staying?” you ask into the bedding.

“No.” Silence. Then, “I have to take you to the family planner at the end of the week.”

Your eyes pop open, the tiredness vanishing. Pushing up, you turn toward Lieutenant Riley. “Did they say why?”

He shakes his head. “Just that they want to see you.”

This is it.

The push.

“You’re being pushy.”

“I’m sorry if I’m coming across that way.” Joann folds her hands in front of her on the desk. She has this superior look about her, as if to say, I know more than you. “I’m simply thinking ahead. Better to start the search now than wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m not ready,” you scoff, still in complete belief at Joann’s audacity to hurl this at you. “I haven’t even been assigned my new home after probation. I just started my job a few days ago.” You shake your head. “This is all very sudden.”

Joann puts on an air of false sympathy. “I completely understand. It’s a difficult transition. But if you put this off, you’ll find yourself rushing later.”

I fucking doubt that, you think even as the words threaten to leave your mouth.

She raises her hands in a placating gesture. “Don’t think of it in the way you’re thinking. You don’t need to make a decision tomorrow.” Joann shrugs. “Think of it as shopping.”

“You’re asking me to shop around for a potential spouse?”

“Or sperm donor,” interjects Joann. “We are inclusive here.”

You wince, wanting to be done with this conversation. It’s not as easy as saying no and moving on. Joann isn’t here speaking with you just for you to throw a no in her face. Not that she gave you the option. I put you down for single’s social, she had said with a bright smile, as if that’s something you wanted to hear today.

“Do I need to wear anything specific?” you ask. “Is this a casual event? Or…”

“It’s casual, but I’d recommend something that compliments you.” She laughs. “No one is going to be in a suit if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Didn’t know those still existed,” you mutter.

Joann ignores your comment. “Look at this as an opportunity. I’ve already received a few inquiries about your eligibility.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “You’ve received what?”

Joann continues like she didn’t hear you. “All of them will be there. And I’ll likely receive more after you attend.” She sighs dreamily. “Especially from those military boys. They see what they want and go after it.”

No. Fucking no.

“This will overwhelm me,” you chuckle nervously. “I shouldn’t go.”

Joann blinks. “Course you should. It’ll do you good to get out. Talk with people other than Lieutenant Riley. I know he’s mysterious and has a bit of a bad boy reputation, but he’s not the only option.” She smooths her hand over the small stack of papers in front of her. “It’s also an excellent opportunity to make some connections. Maybe find friends.”

You could use some friends, but your coworkers are starting to fill that gap. Eloise brought you some croissants she made, and Hannah presented you with your very own coffee mug with “Book Sniffer” on it because she caught you smelling a particularly beautiful copy of War & Peace.

Gathering up the papers, Joann gently taps them against the top of the table. “Lieutenant Riley will be there but I recommend you branch out. I know that he’s probably a place of safety for you right now but lingering at his side all night isn’t the best idea.”

“Why is that?” you snap.

While you’re genuinely interested in knowing, you’re also a bit pissed off that Joann called you out. Ghost is your safety net, and if he’s attending, why would you leave his side to speak with anyone else.

“It’s not fair to others,” answers Joann simply. “Stick by Lieutenant Riley’s side during the whole social and people will think you’re spoken for. They’ll complain.” She looks at you pointedly. “And we don’t want that.”

Fuck.

Causing problems. It’s the exact thing you don’t want to do while you’re on your probationary period. Once you’re past it, things might be different. Charles hasn’t discussed what comes after. He didn’t say whether or not you receive immediate citizenship or if there’s an additional process.

No one is giving you clear direction. No one wants to fully explain. It’s expected submission, to look down and follow along. Pushing back or questioning too much seems to aggravate everyone.

“No,” you agree. “We don’t want that.”

Joann’s face lights up, and you immediately want to slap it off her face. “Brilliant,” she sighs. “Here’s the information. Can’t wait to hear all about it when I see you next.”

Fucking doubtful.

With a half-hearted smile, you make your exit, meeting Ghost in the lobby of the building. When he notices you, he immediately turns in your direction, walking toward you with purpose in every step.

“Everything good?” he asks, grasping your arm to pull you in.

You hand him the information instead of speaking. Ghost takes it, gaze roaming over the piece of paper rapidly.

“You’re fucking joking,” he growls.

Chapter Text

“Looking to crack some teeth, Lt?” asks Johnny as he peers into his empty cup.

“More like cracking a few skulls,” replies Simon with a growl.

Across the room, you chat with a man Simon doesn’t recognize. The sizzle beneath his skin becomes a raging boil, threatening to bubble over into action. The fucking wanker shouldn’t be standing that close or smiling at you like he can’t wait to get you under him.

Johnny clucks his tongue in disappointment. “Talking about your jaw.”

Fucking hell.

“What about my jaw?”

“It’s clenched.” Simon promptly relaxes his jaw. “That’s a good lad,” croons Johnny.

“Shut the fuck up, Soap.”

Soft classical musical plays from hidden speakers in the ceiling. The lighting is warm, casting the room in an intimate glow. Simon hates these events. Fucking loathes them. When he first arrived at this Safe Zone after the whole of Task Force 141 was transferred, he met with a family planner just as you did. But because of his position in the military and the importance of his work, they never put up a fuss when he refused their every suggestion. He avoided the socials they told him to attend and ignored each summons to their office.

For a while, Simon was free, unbeholden to everyone except his superior officer. He kept busy, picking up every mission and every job Captain Price brought to him or the team. And when he needed his cock sucked, it was never difficult to find a willing mouth. They left him alone, and Simon forgot all about the pillars and the mandates and the other stupid fucking rules and regulations civilians are forced to follow.

Unhappy is the word Captain Price used. Unhappy with his refusal to propagate.

“They might force my hand, Simon,” Price had said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Punishment. Rescinding his rank. Forced leave. Price listed off all the possibilities if Simon couldn’t get his shit together and pretend to be involved.

Johnny lightly taps Simon’s upper arm with his empty drink cup. “Need a damn refill.”

“Not stopping you, Johnny,” replies Simon dryly.

As you shift on your feet, popping your right hip, the man you’re talking with glances over your shoulder and makes direct eye contact with Simon. Like a knife to the jugular, the man’s face pales. Good. The bloody wanker gives you a half-hearted smile before turning tail.

Johnny whistles lowly. “Still got it, Lt.”

“Never lost it,” chuckles Simon.

Victory is sweet brilliance—an infinite bath of joy that can only occur when you’ve taken another step toward the thing you want most. Simon could soak in this feeling all damn day.

It’s a temporary exaltation. Fleeting. A momentary triumph.

Like a copperhead lurking in the leaves to bite the wayward hiker, Sergeant Noah Fields strikes. Emerging from nowhere to take the previous man’s place, Fields smoothly slides into conversation, lightly touching your elbow for a stirring of your attention. As you turn toward him, Fields adapts a smile that would fool anyone if they didn’t know him well enough. And you, unknowing of Fields’ transgressions, greet him.

Anger is not the correct word. Red may be the color, but it is not the tangible malice that culminates in his limbs, urging Simon to succumb to poor decisions. It is sharper. Feral. It is bloodthirst and violence.

Johnny notices. And he reacts.

Before Simon can take a step toward Fields, Johnny drapes his arm across Simon’s shoulders, halting his forward momentum. Bringing him in close, Johnny whispers to him. “A drink, Ghost. You need it.”

“Another and I might start swinging.”

Johnny shakes his head. “Ya need a drink. A strong one.” He sighs. “Maybe a fucking walk.”

Fields leans in like he’s about to tell you a secret. You turn your head to give him your ear. The inhale is small, but Simon notices—and he seethes. Fields’ nostrils flare, eyelids growing heavy as he takes a whiff of you. With a slowness that borders on maliciousness, Fields’ heavy-lidded gaze intensifies, flicking upward. Calculated with cold execution, Fields smiles over your shoulder in challenge.

Come and take her, Lieutenant.

Simon tastes metal. If he’s bitten his tongue, he feels no pain. There is only focus, and a great, heaving need to take Fields out in the street for a fucking curb stomp.

“Simon,” warns Johnny through clenched teeth.

His arm around Simon’s shoulders tightens. The empty cup in his hand is quickly discarded as he presses his palm to Simon’s chest. Johnny is just a barrier, one that Simon can easily push aside if the determination is there. And it fucking is. Fields shouldn’t be anywhere near you and why the fuck are you even entertaining him? Simon told you to stay away. It’s infuriating how you listen to him but don’t out of sheer stubbornness and spite.

His dick would be hard and throbbing for you if he weren’t so bloody mad.

“Handle this, Johnny,” growls Simon. “Or I will.”

“Be civil, Lt,” murmurs Johnny, his gaze sweeping outward to observe the surrounding area. “Don’t draw unwanted attention.”

Without breaking eye contact with Fields, Simon speaks out the corner of his mouth. “You and Kyle said you’d keep her occupied.”

“We did,” affirms Johnny.

“Then go occupy her time.”

Johnny squeezes Simon’s shoulder, putting on one of his best smiles. “Can’t be suspicious. Everyone will think I’m desperate.”

“You are desperate. That’s why Kyle’s chatting up the blonde in the corner. Need a wingman to get your dick wet.”

Johnny nods at two men from another unit as they walk past. “You won’t share,” drawls Johnny, giving Simon a pat on the back that’s more forceful than necessary.

“I won’t share her.”

With another squeeze of Simon’s shoulder, Johnny saunters over to where you and Fields chat. The man isn’t in your space like he was before, but the fact that he’s in your vicinity at all pisses Simon off. Every man that looks your way is a threat and Simon’s instinct is to lash out—to push in and shove them away. His interest is the only one that matters.

“Noah!” booms Johnny, extending his arms outward like the two are old friends.

The easy smile on Fields’ face becomes a grimace as Johnny embraces him with overt enthusiasm. Simon would laugh at the spectacle if he weren’t irritated with it all. Johnny deplores Fields just as much as Simon does. Everyone knows this.

The hug is intentional. Johnny places himself between you and Fields, creating a clear separation. From where Simon stands, he can see Johnny’s lips moving, but the distance obscures the words. Fields, to his credit, keeps that forced smile. They’re both pretending—faking it for the sake of control. Johnny aggressively pats Fields’ back before grasping his shoulders. The façade begins to crack, annoyance slipping in between the fractures. The man is about to snap, and it’s exactly where Simon wants him.

Make an ass of yourself, Fields. Go on.

Fields attempts to step away from Johnny, to create space where there is none, but Johnny is a menace, completely obstructing you from Fields.

“Atta boy,” murmurs Simon.

Kyle appears to your right, gently touching your arm to bring your attention to him. You turn, and Kyle gives you a stunning smile. His charm is the perfect distraction, and it takes Kyle no effort at all to herd you away, striking up an easy conversation with you like he’s known you for ages. Fields doesn’t even notice that you’ve disappeared. He’s too focused on Johnny. With a scowl, Fields storms away, heading for the bar. Johnny pivots on his heel, winking at Simon as he makes for the blonde that Kyle was schmoozing minutes ago.

Another hour of this and Simon can take you home. The two of you need alone time. He needs you to listen, to understand that this isn’t a game. On the surface, this entire process might appear trivial—Simon thought so when he first arrived—but eventually, as all authoritative powers do, they sink their teeth in, shaking you around in their maw like a dog toy. Wombs are precious, which is why they’re already shoving this down your throat, forcing you to eat the mandate of genetic contribution all while telling you how good it tastes.

The only choice you’ll have is who. Simon intends for it to be him.

Walking the perimeter of the room, Simon keeps tabs on you. Pretending is the hardest part—faking his disinterest because someone behind a desk wants you to “shop around.” Every glance your way, every step, every word from another man is a threat. From the moment you were brought before him, Simon knew.

You are an opportunity. A way to not feel so alone anymore. He seized it. Cornered you. Staked a claim. From that possession came longing—deep and sharp and bloodied. For Simon, every intimate interaction has been transactional. But with you, he can picture a different future, a path where he has an actual partner and not someone looking for a handout.

Not that he blames any of the women that tried to baby trap him, or the ones that never told their husbands that they cheated. Danger is thrilling for the ones stuck in monotony. They seek escape with him. Others want to ensnare him, bring him to heel simply for their own ends. Simon knows. He understands. Which is why he takes every precaution. It’s why he has a reputation.

Safe Zones bleed with rumor. Civilians eat that shit up, devouring it as quickly as they devour resources. Simon hears what people say about him. It’s no mystery. When women flock to him to seek his bed, it’s easy to sus out who wants a quick fuck and who is looking to get knocked up. Simon always indulged the sex but never took it farther. They never wanted him. They never wanted Simon.

“See the new military ordinance?” Kyle saddles up to Simon’s left side, taking a sip from his cup.

“You’re not with her,” observers Simon.

Kyle inclines his head. “Price is with her.”

Frowning, Simon glances around the room, seeking you. It takes a few sweeps before he locates you near the far wall in animated conversation. The tension in his shoulders dissipates some. In terms of rank, Captain Price is one of the highest in the room. That authority alone will deter anyone from cutting in.

“Surprised he’s here,” replies Simon.

The middle of Kyle’s brow furrows. “The old man isn’t married.”

“No,” says Simon slowly. “But he donates.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. “No shit?” He shakes his head. “Wanking on the weekends.”

“Don’t we all,” comments Simon which only makes Kyle laugh harder.

“Wonder how many little buggers are running around with Captain’s genes.”

“Probably more than we think,” muses Simon with a chuckle. Glancing away from you and Price in deep conversation, Simon changes topics. “What’s this about a military ordinance?”

Kyle’s humor dissipates, replaced by exasperation. “Excessive force.”

“What about it?”

“Use of force must match level of threat,” says Kyle as if he’s reading from a script.

Simon snorts. “That’s nothing new.”

“Use of excessive force against civilians or essential infrastructure is now considered a war crime.”

Simon clucks his tongue. “Sounds like one of the zones was behaving badly.”

Kyle nods. “Bad enough that every zone has to establish a civilian oversight committee.”

“Fucking hell,” growls Simon. “We taking orders from civilians now?”

Kyle shrugs and downs the rest of his drink. “Talked to Price about it. Says military personnel are included in the ordinance. But we’re not the problem.”

“Then who is?” asks Simon. Kyle arches a single eyebrow. Simon scoffs. “Fucking police. Always on a goddamn power trip.”

“Bunch of gits who couldn’t pass basic,” mutters Kyle. “Don’t know the details but Price said it wasn’t good.”

“People died,” states Simon because it isn’t a question.

“Enough that it fired up the Continuity Council.” Kyle takes a slow, lingering look around the room. Leaning in, he lowers his voice until it’s a whisper. “And upped the minimum number of births across all zones.”

“Price confirmed this?”

Kyle gives a quick nod of his head. “Said he’d debrief us in a few days. We might be heading elsewhere for a bit.”

No. No.

You’ll be left unattended. Vulnerable. Up for the taking. Anyone can step in and make themselves at home. Simon won’t be able to stop them.

“Sounds like tyranny,” growls Simon.

“Stinks of it,” mutters Kyle, his mouth curled downward in disgust.

A trio of women saunter by, their gazes lingering on Simon and Kyle in lecherous interest. Kyle sends a flirty wink in their direction, eliciting a few girlish giggles and a fluttering of eyelashes. Simon remains unmoving, expression neutral. They don’t interest him. The only woman he wants is you.

But that future might be slipping away.

“How many days are left?” asks Kyle.

“A few,” answers Simon. “Then she’s on her own.”

Kyle inhales deeply. The exhale is slow—almost a sigh. “You need to talk to her. Make a move before it’s too late.”

“I know,” mumbles Simon, his gaze growing soft as he watches you in animated conversation with Captain Price.

You’re a strong, stubborn thing with a touch of sweetness. There are moments when Simon lingers in memory, when the two of you slept beside each other in that bunk on base. He draws up the desperation on your face, the vulnerability of loss, of how you begged for him to make you feel anything other than the pain you felt in your heart. You were beautiful and soft. Simon hungered to devour every bit of yourself you were willing to give.

If only Johnny hadn’t interrupted. You’d be his right now, and the two of you wouldn’t have to navigate this ridiculous function. There would be no threats, no potential suitors.

Simon checks his watch. “Fucking finally,” he grumbles.

“It’ll work out,” affirms Kyle as Simon heads in your direction.

When you notice him, there is no malice or fear. Your smile widens in pleasure, a clear sign that you’re happy to see him. Hope renews itself, pushing down on Simon’s worry. There is every possibility that things might not go his way, but you continue to gravitate toward him. You will choose him. Simon only needs to make you understand.

“Time to go,” he murmurs, placing his hand on the small of your back.

You melt into him, leaning into Simon’s touch as you gaze into his face. Pride blooms in his chest at how quickly and easily you respond to him. There is no asking—no commanding. You are drawn to him, effortlessly seeking him when he’s close.

“Finally,” you sigh, your gorgeous smile softening. “Thought you’d never rescue me.”

Captain Price inclines his head, a knowing glint in his eye. “Have a good evening.”

When Price is out of earshot, Simon leans in, drawing you closer to him. “Ready?”

“Yes. Please, Lieutenant.”

The way you say his title pleases him. Even when you’re angry, even when you say it with venom, Simon adores it. He wants to bottle up the tone of your voice and bathe in it.

With a gentle push at your back, Simon shepherds you away from the noise and drudgery of societal expectation. There is only the two of you walking in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying the mutual company. While you don’t hold his hand, you stroll along the pavement close to him, your arm occasionally brushing his.

It's not until the two of you enter your temporary flat that Simon drums up the courage to push the issue.

“How was it?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.

Simon steps up to you, helping you out of your coat. “Fine,” you reply. “Better than I thought it would be.”

“Not a social butterfly?” teases Simon.

“No,” you laugh. “Not when it’s forced and with people I don’t know.”

“That’s fair,” murmurs Simon, hanging your coat on a hook near the door. “Family planner will want to hear about it.” The annoyed groan that bursts from you makes Simon chuckle.

“Joann can go fuck herself.” You rub at the back of your neck, rolling it back and forth. “She’s pushy.”

“That’s her job,” replies Simon dryly. You turn, narrowing your eyes in annoyance. “Not justifying it, dove.”

You drop your hand. “Probation isn’t over and she’s up my ass about finding a partner. I don’t even know where I’ll be living once it’s up. And I just started work.”

Kyle’s words from earlier creep in. Enough that it fired up the Continuity Council and upped the minimum number of births across all zones.

It’s no surprise the family planner is being pushy. If the United Nations Continuity Council is upping the minimum number of births across all zones, the family planners and localized governments will do anything to incentivize women to increase their numbers to meet the new standard. You’re an untapped resource they intend to seize.

“Contributing to the genetic pool is the first pillar,” states Simon. “It’s expected from everyone.”

“Is it?” you counter. “Or is it only truly expected from those with a working womb?”

You don’t understand the significance of what you’re saying. There are much larger powers at play that don’t entirely care about your opinion on the matter.

“This isn’t a game,” growls Simon.

“Didn’t think it was,” you retort. “But I will not be forced to choose.”

No. You truly are ignorant to how it works.

Simon slides into a calmer tone. “You’ll have to make a choice.” He takes a step toward you. “They will push. Talk around your options. But you will choose.”

“Will I?” you counter. “How long have you lived here, Lieutenant? Did they ever force you to make a choice?”

Simon draws back from the blow. “No.”

“That’s exactly my point,” you hiss, stepping into his space, staring up at him in challenge. “You’re a man. They would never.”

“That’s not entirely true, dove,” murmurs Simon. “They might covet those with viable wombs, but they need healthy, strong donors to fill them.”

The fire in your eyes fades a bit, your gaze hiding nothing from him. Simon picks up on it, glimpsing the hesitation as you process his words. This place is a stranger to you. Isolation has numbed you to the reality of the world and how it functions in the aftermath of so much death.

You lick your lips, glancing away from him for the first time. It’s not a sign of submission. It’s a consideration.

“It’s not the same,” you murmur.

“No. It’s not.”

A few brief seconds pass before you look up into his eyes. “I don’t want to choose.”

“I know,” he answers softly. “But it doesn’t matter what you want.”

It’s far too blunt, but it needs to be said. If Kyle is right, and they might be leaving shortly for a new mission, Simon needs to have this conversation with you. Bringing you gifts and asking to kiss you might be small steps toward his goal, but they won’t be enough if he leaves for an extended period.

“The fact I have to choose at all is ridiculous.” Your voice breaks, and it hurts him to hear it. “The pillars preach autonomy but contradict it in the next breath.”

Desperation clings to you—holding on like a sickness that just won’t clear the system. Simon understands your frustration, he accepts your anger with it all, but some battles are not achieved alone. Sometimes, you must mold what you have and make it work.

“Picking someone is better than fighting.”

“It’s not a choice, Lieutenant! It’s an illusion.” Your outburst softens into a murmur. “I shouldn’t have to.”

You’re not drawing back from him—not fleeing. Taking a chance, Simon shifts closer, fingers itching to touch you, to feel your skin against his.

“That’s the reality, dove.” You scoff, turning away. Simon reaches out, grasping the back of your neck, forcing you to look him in the eye. “But as long as you pick, they’ll think you’re trying. They’ll leave you alone for a while.”

Even now, your eyes water. Tears are threatening to fall. Simon longs to chase them away.

“And what happens when there is no baby?” you counter. “What happens then?”

Simon’s answer is immediate and laced with finality. “There will be.”

“Really?” you guffaw, clear disbelief in the way you snort. “With who?”

With me.

Simon remains silent. You’ll figure it out.

The deep creases in the middle of your brow start to smooth as your facial muscles relax, shifting from disdain and stubbornness to surprise.

“With you?” you whisper. Your lips part, eyes darting across his face as they seek any hint of confirmation.

“I told you I’d protect you. Provide for you. Keep you safe.”

Your head shakes slightly in abject refusal. “I—I don’t—”

“When they make you choose,” continues Simon. “Who will you be safer with?”

“Don’t, Lieutenant.”

“Who do you think will be patient?” he pushes.

“Stop.”

“Me? Sergeant Fields?” He pauses. “A stranger?”

You attempt to pull away, to remove yourself from this conversation. Simon stays steady, his grip on your neck firm and unmoving.

“I’m done talking about this,” you say, nearly begging.

“But the family planner will ask,” murmurs Simon. “Joann will want to talk.”

Genetic contribution, the rebuilding of society, are veins sunk deep in the very fabric of this new world. Genocide and war will do that. Near erasure of an entire people cripples everyone. There is a reason there are so many rules and regulations now. There is reason in the spreading of cultures across the globe, equally divided among Safe Zones. Isolationism and puritanical eugenics brought the world to a precipice. Then it pushed everyone into the abyss. Even the ones that believed these ideals would save them suffered.

There were no winners. Just carnage and scorched earth. And the remains of civilization.

“Just go home, Lieutenant. Just—go.”

Your voice is breathy, tinged with grief. You’ve right to be angry with him, to blame him for ripping you away from everything you know. It was selfish. Simon won’t deny that. To pursue you after is pure greed.

“Look at me,” he urges, coaxing you with gentle timbre. You shake your head, refusing. “Look at me, dove.” With the lightest touch, Simon taps your jaw with his thumb. It’s brief, a ghost of a thing, but you respond to him. “You’d be safe with me.”

Your mouth forms a sad smile, and it’s an answer unto itself. A revelation. An epiphany toward revealing what you’re truly thought all this time.

“But can you make me happy?” you ask. Your stare is piercing—seeking answers and reassurance.

Simon doesn’t lie. Not to you. But sometimes he twists the truth.

“In time,” he sighs, tilting your mouth toward his.

Maybe you believe him. Maybe you don’t. The only concrete reaction Simon can gleam is your refusal to choose, that in the end, you will have an option. For now, you do have the option, an opportunity to select the man who will father your children. But if you keep denying—keep pushing the decision off—someone will be assigned to you. And if Simon is gone, if he’s away at another zone, it won’t be him.

“It’s not enough.” You place your hands on his chest like you’re going to shove him away. But there is no pressure. Just your palms against his pectorals.

He needs to frame this differently, to give you reason to pick him over anyone else. The truth of the situation isn’t working. For whatever reason, you’re denying it, believing that all will be fine, and your autonomy is intact. When it comes to life in the Safe Zones, this is true. But genetic contribution is their top priority. It is the one thing they won’t budge on.

Drawing you close, he drapes his arm around your lower back, his hand splaying wide across your hip. The way you surrender to him, how you melt and form to him with gentle comfort, should be enough to persuade you. How the fuck do you not see it?

“Then why do you indulge me?” he asks softly, bringing his face closer. You sigh with contentment, eyelids closing, head tilting to welcome him. It takes all but a single kiss. You fully collapse into him, your splayed hands moving upward to hook behind his neck. “You like this,” he rasps against your lips.

“It’s—it’s just a bit of—” Simon’s hand falls to your ass. Squeezing, he nips at your bottom lip. “—comfort,” you manage to gasp out.

Simon nuzzles the side of your face, lips brushing your cheekbone. His hands roam, and with each exploration, you press into his touch, little moans of pleasure falling from your lips.

“You begged for me once,” he murmurs. “Spread your legs and welcomed me.” Simon’s hands slip beneath the hem of your blouse, fingertips caressing bare skin. “You tasted so good,” he continues, licking his lips in remembrance.

Blood rushes downward, hardness becoming an intense, throbbing need. You shiver as his fingertips trace an upward path, and then moan when he palms your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, bringing it to stiffness.

“Do you want safety with me? Security?” Simon palms your other breast. “Pleasure?”

You whimper, hips flexing as if to grind against him. Words mean nothing in the face of action. Denial dripping from your lips are empty, hollow shells when you surrender to him like this. How close he is to making you his.

Mine.

Always mine.

Simon’s hands descend—retreating. In the haze of lust, you drift upward, emerging as if from a dream. Deep in the recesses of his mind, Simon captures this, storing it away. When you’re bare and riddled with post-orgasm euphoria, is this what you’ll look like?

“I can’t,” you breathe. “I won’t choose until I’m ready.”

Stubborn as ever.

There are no more kisses, no yearning touches. Simon gently cradles your cheek and lightly presses his lips to your forehead. The ticking of the clock on the far wall is an incessant reminder.

Time is fleeting. And it is not his ally.

Chapter Text

“It’s a bloody coup.”

Captain Price’s cigar smoke lingers in the air, stilted and stuffy and picking at Simon’s oral fixation. The pack of cigarettes and lighter are in Simon’s hand a second later. Balaclava off, the filtered end resting between his lips, a click as he pops the lighter, orange flame sparking to life.

Simon inhales, cherishes the burn.

“Attempted coup,” exhales Simon, a cloud of smoke circling his head. “A fucking mess of one.”

Pictures and paper litter the dark wood tabletop. A detailed map of the northern border of Washington and the southern border of Canada sits in the middle. Nearby, a small lamp provides a bit of warm light, and it’s all they’ll have at this hour. Late in the evenings, when most of the population is in bed, power is conserved and redirected. Only necessary infrastructure is allowed nightly clearance. Task Force 141 might be sitting in a small meeting room in the military district, but a building mainly used for clerical work isn’t high priority.

The fact that a singular lamp is even working is a bloody miracle.

Captain Price smooths his facial hair with his fingers, his expression pensive. “The masterminds went to ground. We’re being sent to sniff them out.”

Kyle gives a small shake of his head. “Fucking animals. Mowing unarmed civilians down like that.”

Simon takes a long drag on his cigarette, allowing the burn to take the place of his anger. Rage won’t help. There are no enemies to fight in this cramped room with smoke-stale air and fetid tempers. What he wants is to seek comfort with you, to have your warmth cradled in his arms before he’s forced to leave it behind.

“All that fighting and no one learned anything,” growls Johnny.

“Humans are fickle, sergeant,” replies Simon slowly, his thumb smoothing over the metal casing of the lighter. “Can’t always trust them.”

Johnny’s side-eye is sharp enough to slice steel. No one is in a good mood. This is their work and yet it’s different—too personal. In the beginning, Task Force 141 was bounced around from Safe Zone to Safe Zone, but it wasn’t unusual. Military personnel were on the move and hardly anyone stayed in one place for long. But that’s when humanity stopped fighting and organized. The old disagreements were put to rest and the new fractures had yet to crawl forth to sink their teeth in. The team was sent outward, to push back against external threats. Internal threats were unthinkable because the mandates were working and people wanted to live.

“When are we leaving?” asks Simon, pointedly ignoring Johnny’s cutting glare.

Price clears his throat. “In three days.”

“Why the delay?” probes Kyle. “Why not tonight? Or tomorrow?”

Leaning forward, Price shifts the map of Washington and Canada to reveal a detailed map of Safe Zone Thirty. It’s one of the smaller zones, mainly used for logging and growing certain crops like potatoes. Fringe and insignificant compared to the larger zones, which makes it the perfect target. A place like that flips with the right control and no ones the wiser until its absence leaves a dent.

Price’s mouth twitches with irritation. “One group wants us there. Another…not so much.”

“Fuck what those bastards think,” mutters Kyle with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Not my call,” replies Price, tapping his cigar against the glass ashtray. “But we are going. Despite the pushback.”

“We’ll root them out,” says Kyle confidently, settling back in his chair. “Always do.”

It’s all schematics after that, a draining process of the who and the why and the basic disregard of humanity. The end of the war was supposed to put all this to rest, to unify the remains, and forge a future out of bloodied scraps.

But humans love their violence—they adore consumption.

Why be at peace? Why be stagnant? Why not rip into the meat?

The walk to the pub downstairs is utterly silent except for Johnny’s off-key whistling. Of all the advantages of the military district, the free-flowing alcohol is a perk Simon will miss while they’re away. Pubs are always open. From sun up to sun down, soldiers of every rank frequent their stoop, spilling out into the street with bottles still in hand.

Simon sinks into a chair in the back of the pub while Johnny orders for them at the bar. There is no cost. No open tabs. Not for anyone willing to hold a gun in the name of global security. But money doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all been dissolved for the sake of harmony.

“Fucker gave me the whole bottle,” laughs Johnny as he cradles three rocks glasses and a half-full bottle of bourbon.

Kyle stands, reaching for the glasses before they topple to the ground. They’re distributed, and the whiskey is poured with a heavy hand.

“Another bloody trip,” mutters Kyle. “We just got home from the last one.” He sighs heavily, running his hand over his face is exhaustion. “How long will this one be.”

The wall sconces glow dimly, not from electricity, but half-melted candles. It’s the go-to when the power is yanked and distributed elsewhere. Everything in the pub is in shadow, which is fucking perfect for Simon. The balaclava can come off, and he can enjoy his bourbon without some wanker having a good stare about it.

Even in the shadows, Johnny’s smile is a sunbeam. “At least that bonny blonde from the social will be here when you come back.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “She spit or swallow?” Simon snorts into his glass as Kyle swipes at Soap’s head. Johnny cackles. “Oh, aye. You always liked the spitters.”

“Piss off, you wanker,” laughs Kyle, the earlier exhaustion dissipating. Moving his rocks glass around, Kyle shifts his attention to Simon, a knowing glint in his eye. “What about your woman? Have her hooked yet?”

Simon’s thumb rubs a bead of condensation off his glass. “Working on it.” The water melts into his skin. “She’s a stubborn thing.”

“I remember,” chuckles Kyle, bringing his own glass up for a sip. “She calm down any?”

“You mean does she knee me in the dick and flee?”

Johnny wheezes, covering his eyes with his hand as he falls into a fit of laughter. “Hells, Lt. That was fucking golden.” He lightly hits Kyle’s arm with the back of his hand. “Remember how hard he went down? Fucking beautiful it was.”

“True strike,” says Kyle with admiration.

Simon rubs at his eye, a small smile teasing the surface. “Goddamn pricks.” Kyle and Johnny both make jerking off gestures before they devolve into hysterical wheezing that leaves Johnny bent over and gasping for air. “Now you’re just taking the piss.”

“Go on then,” smiles Kyle. “Tell us how you’re wooing her?”

“Putting on that charm, aren’t ya, Lt?”

Gaz elbows Soap. “Buying her flowers.”

Soap winks. “Cracking jokes.”

“Romantic walks in the park.”

“Infinite orgasms.”

Simon remains silent, his good mood wavering slightly with the coming interrogation. There is no clear path of avoidance, no path he can take to steer the conversation away from you and how utterly shit he is at coaxing you into his arms. Kyle and Johnny won’t let this matter drop. Simon has asked too much of them already. They know the pursuit is active, and with him bringing them into it just to flame his own ego, they believe they have the right to know the details.

Maybe it’s Simon’s neutral expression that gives him away—the sudden shift from good mood to quiet hesitation—that triggers Kyle’s next question.

“Are you pursuing her?”

Simon runs his tongue over his teeth as he considers the bourbon in his glass. “I am.”

“You don’t sound happy about it,” states Gaz, resting his forearm on the tabletop.

Johnny stares at Simon with an odd expression. “You were up my ass at the social about her.”

“You weren’t keeping others away from her,” mutters Simon.

Johnny rolls his eyes. Kyle leans back in his chair; one hand raised slightly as the gears in his head process the situation.

“What are you doing, mate?” asks Gaz.

Simon runs his finger along the lip of the glass. “I’m being honest with her,” he replies.

“About what?” counters Kyle.

“About her situation.” Simon taps the rim of the glass. Once. Twice. Thrice. “That they’re going to make her choose. And she should choose me.”

Kyle and Johnny both let out exasperated groans, their movements exaggerated as they throw their hands in air.

“You’re got be bloody joking, Simon,” mutters Kyle.

Defensiveness rises. “It’s true,” retorts Simon. “I told her the truth. Showed her what I have to offer.”

Johnny has both elbows on the table, hands covering his face as he chortles.

Kyle drapes an arm across the back of the empty chair next to him. “And what do you have to offer?”

Simon purses his lips, tipping his head back to finish the last of the bourbon in his glass. “Protection. Safety. Security,” he lists, reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table. Simon refills his glass. “That I’d provide for her.”

“Jesus Christ,” guffaws Kyle. “How the fuck are you pulling women, mate?”

“What’s wrong with what I told her?”

“That’s what you said to entice her? Are you fucking serious?”

Simon stares, unamused and over this. “It’s what all the other women wanted from me.”

Kyle shakes his head, snagging the bottle of bourbon when Simon sets it down. “And you think she’s the same? That it’s enough?”

“I didn’t say that,” replies Simon, a threat of a growl rising in his voice.

“But you implied it,” says Kyle, pointing at him as Johhny sits up, sharing in Kyle’s skepticism. Kyle fills his glass and hands it over to Johnny. “What makes you think what you promised her is special? That you’re the only one who can do that?”

“Security isn’t guaranteed.”

“Just because the women that pursued you wanted those things, doesn’t mean she does. There are plenty of single women across this Safe Zone who don’t want those things. Most of them are perfectly fucking happy. And,” Kyle continues, shifting in his chair, “they’re picking men who couldn’t even shoot the side of a building if you handed them a gun.”

“And when things go south, as they always do, they’ll wish they did,” says Simon, unwilling to budge.

He’s not wrong. Simon knows this in his heart. The world might have been shattered, the pieces glued together to resemble what it is now, but Captain Price’s briefing tonight proved exactly why society is still fragile.

Kyle’s body language shifts. It’s subtle, but Simon sees it. He’s changing tactics.

“You promised her security and safety. Great,” shrugs Kyle. “You know who can also provide that?” His head tilts slightly. “Me.” He nods toward Johnny. “Soap.” He gestures toward the rest of the men in the pub. “All of them. Your offer isn’t special. And that’s where you’re missing the damn point.”

Gaz is stubbornly persistent, and as much as Simon is annoyed by it, the man isn’t wrong. Simon isn’t winning you over like he thought he would. You’re still resisting—pushing back. His actions were fucking selfish in taking you but it was also to protect you. You were not a citizen of the Safe Zones in that moment. The mandate requires that any human found outside the walls of a Safe Zone must be brought back if they are not an active threat. Simon had the highest rank. He was leading that team. He had the first right to declare intent on bringing you back with them. If he hadn’t, you’d have been a doe during hunting season.

It's barbaric. And it’s also a secret.

As much as the people in power reassure the general population that all outsiders are given proper due process and rights, that’s simply not the case. They change their tune depending on the situation, and for you, they would. You were a lone woman, a potential contributor to the gene pool, and they would have turned the other cheek if Simon had brought you back and insisted that you were to be his and his alone.

They would have granted it. Easily. Without a fucking question.

But Simon didn’t. He brought you back, claimed you at reintegration and processing, but only in that he was bringing you back into the fold, that in your file, it would simply have his name and rank for submitting personnel—not that he intended more. Shit like that stays under the table. It’s one of the easiest ways for military members to snag a wife and start a family.

Which is why Kyle isn’t even suggesting that Simon do it, or questioning why he didn’t.

“Have you even asked her what she wants?” asks Gaz. “Talked to her about what she wants in a partner?”

“I know what she needs,” replies Simon.

“And what’s that?”

“Me.”

Kyle smirks. “You ask her that?”

No.

Johnny settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked underneath his armpits. “Ya know, I’ve got a question for you, Lt.”

“Do you, Johnny?”

“Does she even know your name?”

Kyle’s laugh is clipped and short. “Seriously?”

Johnny nods, addressing Gaz. “Remember at the social? When she referred to Simon, she only said—”

“Lieutenant Riley,” finished Kyle. “Never Simon.”

“Nope.”

Gaz and Soap slowly turn their heads in his direction.

Goddamnit.

“I like it when she calls me by my rank.”

Johnny’s grin is feral. “What do you think, Kyle? Think you’d blow your load if your blonde bomb moaned your rank while you fucked her?”

Kyle shrugs. “Probably. Novelty might wear off though.”

“Oh, aye.” Johnny pretends to hump the air. “Sergeant,” he moans loudly and dramatically.

A few heads swivel in their direction and Simon punches Johnny’s arm. “Shut up, Soap.”

“In all seriousness,” says Kyle. “Does she really not know your name? Is it just…lieutenant?”

“No,” Simon admits. “Sometimes she says ‘Ghost.’”

“Thought you were trying to make her a wife,” heckles Johnny. “Wear your mask around her too?”

“Only when others are around,” states Simon flatly. “She’s seen my face.”

“And she hasn’t bolted?”

“Piss off.”

“You need to talk to her, mate,” advises Kyle. “Ask her about herself. Make an effort to know her.” Simon opens his mouth, a retort forming on his tongue, but Kyle holds up his hand. “And don’t fucking say you did because you didn’t.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, Garrick.”

“I already know what you’re thinking. The only shit you know about her comes from her fucking files. Reading a dossier doesn’t cut it. She’s a human being. Not a target.”

Kyle is right. He is right and it’s fucking infuriating. Simon’s lack of success is a sore spot, sure, but he doesn’t need to be smacked over the head with it.

“Thought you’d give me more credit than that.”

“And I don’t think you’re giving her enough,” counters Gaz. “Take her out on a proper date. Have a deep, meaningful conversation with her. Think it’s clear by the skull face,” and Kyle gestures with an open hand in front of his own, “that you’re a scary fucker who can and will protect those he cares about. No one is questioning that.”

Kyle reaches for the bottle, topping off Simon’s bourbon. Simon considers the dark liquid—and his next move. He has three—no—less than. Maybe a day. Perhaps two. Not nearly long enough to convince you, to bring you over to his side completely.

Johnny nods. “And if you can’t win her over with your stunning personality—”

“Here we fucking go,” mutters Simon.

“Could win her over with your huge—”

The last word is silenced as Kyle slaps his hand over Johnny’s mouth. Soap cocks an eyebrow and grasps Gaz’s wrist, playfully shoving him away. “Was going to say heart.”

“Right,” chuckles Kyle. “What about you, Soap? Manage to scrounge up some tail without his help.” He gestures with a thumb at Simon.

The two men start to jokingly bicker, giving one another shit over who is getting their dick wet more often. Simon only cuts in to goad, to poke at them, but mostly to fire Johnny up until he’s mouthing off in an accent so thick, not even his kin would be able to understand him.

This is the normal he knows. It’s what he clings to. There are no more walks along the streets of Manchester. No commutes into London. No trips north to the Scottish Highlands. The homeland is gone, the major cities all craters or shattered from constant bombardment. Habitable, thankfully, but it’ll take generations to return it to a fraction of what it used to be.

Home is now wherever one can make it. Home, for the moment, is this Safe Zone. His current posting. This mission might be temporarily moving him elsewhere, but it’s possible that different orders can come in after their time is up in Safe Zone Thirty. That might tear him away from you forever, unless he includes transfer referrals with your name on them. They’ll accept it, as long as you agree.

Long after the bourbon is gone, and Simon finishes his last cigarette, the three of them call it a night. A trio, meandering down the street, laughing as Johnny poorly sings every obscure drinking ballad he knows. Kyle joins in, on tune but spouting complete gibberish. The cheerful mood wanes as they approach your building. It’s a stark reminder of tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that.

Simon pauses at the entry door, knowing that the alcohol is telling him to go to you, rather than his fucking brain. If Johnny and Kyle weren’t here, he’d listen to that buzz, climb those stairs, knock on your door regardless of the fact that it’s the middle of the fucking night. Good decisions are never made while pissed on shitty, old bourbon.

Every step is agony, every forward movement like a barrage of daggers. Time is limited. Not only is Simon fucking leaving in three days, but your probationary period is up tomorrow. You’ll start your move out of military housing and into civilian life. You won’t be near Simon anymore, at least, not on a regular basis. His job requires him to be close to his work, but he’s a civilian, too, and he has his own designated space out amongst the plain clothes.

Not that you know that. Or that he tells people about it.

And at the ass-crack of dawn, Simon is standing at your front door, still a little buzzed and bleary-eyed from the bourbon, itching for a cigarette that isn’t there.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his forehead.

There’s no way you’re up and about, but he’s already here. He can at least try.

A deep breath in. Raised fist. Skin meeting treated wood.

“Come in!”

Simon steps back, surprised that you even answer, and so quickly. Hesitantly, he places his hand on the doorknob. Giving it a gentle testing twist, the brass surrenders to him.

“Fucking unbelievable,” he murmurs, astounded by your lack of self-preservation. Anyone could walk in if they wanted to. Did you leave it unlocked all night?

As the door swings shut behind him, Simons makes sure the deadbolt is in place.

“Lieutenant!” you exclaim, glancing up from the spread of papers in front of you. Kneeling next to the coffee table by the worn sofa, your startled expression clearly leans into flustered frustration. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s your last day,” states Simon. “On probation. Thought I’d come by. Offer my help.” The relief is palpable, sliding off of you as the tension in your shoulders dissipates. “And it’s Simon. You don’t need to use my rank to address me. That’s for Captain Price when he’s about to chew my ass out.”

“Oh,” you say, clipped. “Um. Yes. Thank you. Simon. I—” You glance down at the chaotic spread before you. “It’s just…a lot. And I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“Want me to go?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be dismissive. Or that I don’t want you here. I’m…”

“Overwhelmed?” finishes Simon.

You incline your head, sheepish.

Simon approaches the sofa, sinking down on the edge of the nearest cushion. “How can I help?” he gently murmurs, extending his hand to receive some of the paperwork. You pick something out from the pile and hand it to him.

“I don’t understand the money system that isn’t a money system but looks like a money system that is also a bartering system but also—"

“Slow down, dove,” he soothes, resting his hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing the space between where the tension is returning. “Set that aside. Start with something else.” As he smooths slow circles into your muscles, you lean into his touch, breathing deeply. “You have the address for your new place?”

A silly question. A diversion. Because Simon already knows. He made sure to pick it out, and Price made it happen.

“Yes,” you breathe, tone lighter. “It’s near the library, thankfully. Overlooks the park. Hannah came with me yesterday. To take a look.”

“You like it?” asks Simon, still rubbing your shoulder muscle.

The smile you give him is lovely and honey-drenched. “Much better than this. Lots of natural light. It’s a bit small, but it’s also just me. I can make it work.” You tilt your head back to look up at him. “And waking up to a park every day will be a nice change.”

That’s on purpose, love.

Simon might be a selfish asshole, but he listens. Screaming in his face also did the trick. He took you from your home, and while he can’t deliver you back to your porch hammock or garden outside your bedroom window, he can certainly give you something similar.

“You like the area?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Yes. It’s lovely.”

“Good.” Simon switches to your other shoulder. You sigh with contentment, and Simon ignores the fact that all the blood in his body is rushing toward his dick. “Did they give you all your proper identification?”

Under his touch, the muscles tighten.

“I honestly have no idea.” You lean forward and out of Simon’s grip. Shuffling through some of the papers, you present Simon with a small, thin, and rectangular shaped card. “This?”

“Yes,” confirms Simon. “Always keep that with you. It’s what identifies you, and it’s also how you can buy things.”

“But there isn’t any money. No currency.” You turn back to look at him. “Charles sent over,” you gesture at the mess, “packets of information and none of it makes any sense.”

“You’re right. There isn’t any paper money. No electronic bank accounts. That’s all been dissolved.”

“So how do I buy things?”

Explaining things in a condensed context but with enough clarity to communicate comprehension isn’t Simon’s strongest trait. He likes few words. Directness. Bluntness. Quickness. He has plenty of patience but sometimes it’s selective.

Simon taps the bronze circle on your identification card. “Everyone has a circle. Different colors mean different things.”

You frown. “This is already sounding a lot like something else.”

“It’s an allowance…of sorts,” reassures Simon. “Everyone receives the same baseline resources. Depending on what you do, you’re given a certain amount of…points. In your free hours, you can use them how you like.”

“So, it’s a caste system.”

Simon frowns. “No.”

“See,” you state matter-of-factly. “This is why I’m not getting it.”

He reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “If it were a caste system, everyone would be stagnant. No social mobility.” Finding his identification card, Simon presents the gold circle on his. “The circles are like a salary.”

Your gaze narrows slightly. “Instead of physical currency it’s a point system? You do this job and you get paid a certain number of points.”

“Exactly, dove.”

You stare at him a moment before you speak. “That’s stupid.”

Simon shrugs. “Didn’t make the decision.”

You playfully stick your tongue out at him, and Simon smiles, imitating the gesture right back at you. Your mouth forms into pure sunshine. Simon wants to bottle it. Save it for a rainy day.

“They give you a pickup schedule for your provisions?” asks Simon.

“For my what?”

“Food. Hygiene products. Basic necessities.” You blink, saying nothing. Simon leans forward and gently picks up the different papers and stapled packets they gave you. “Everyone receives them. Standard shit to keep you alive.”

Your lips slightly part, confusion setting in. A bolt of anger rises, not with you, but with Charles and his clear lack of preparation. The advisor they assign to people coming in from the outside is supposed to go over all of this in detail. They should be guiding you, teaching you, and if they’re too busy, there are entire fucking classes he could put you in. Either Charles doesn’t give a shit, or he’s terrible at his fucking job.

Simon rubs the back of his head. “You’re single. Living alone. Healthy. They’ll give you the standard. Nothing extra.”

“Like rations?”

He shrugs. “No. Equitable distribution. You don’t need calcium supplements like granny does. But she won’t need menstrual products like you will.”

“Oh,” you say quickly, glancing away to fidget with the edge of the table. “Then,” you say tentatively, “what are the points for if I’m provided the basics?”

“The extra,” answers Simon. “For you to go see a movie. Grab a coffee on your way to work. Go for drinks with Hannah and Eloise.”

“That—I can do that?”

Simon nods. “The Safe Zones weren’t built from nothing. They’re former cities. Converted to fit the needs of the present.”

You laugh like you can’t quite believe it. “But how? I—I thought…I thought the world was so much worse than all this. Pockets of nuclear wasteland. Scorched earth. Acid rain. Just…devastation.”

Simon shifts closer, the side of his thigh brushing against your shoulder. The contact is electric—a slice of sharpened metal that cuts cleanly. While your closeness sends a ripple of heat through his body, there are more pressing matters. Like the fact that don’t know anything, that you are truly in the dark. Simon is angry for you, that such things were kept secret. He’s not aware of what life was like for you before he took you, but did your community lie? Did they omit?

And then Charles. Your advisor clearly ignored every single one of his job requirements in order to be a lazy sack of shit. While Simon would love to sit here and walk through every little detail, there wouldn’t be enough time, and it would overwhelm you. Already, the tension is setting in again. Panic is there, too, hiding beneath but threatening to emerge.

What you need is a distraction. An escape.

You fidget with your sleeve, gaze averted. “I’m not sure if Charles sent anything about a provisions schedule.”

Leaning forward, Simon grabs a small stack of papers and flips through it.

There’s information about emergency services. The nearest hospital and walk-in clinics. A map of the bus and streetcar systems.

“Here,” he says, finding the correct one. “Looks like you have a form to fill out.”

“Fuck,” you groan, elongating the vowel. Your head tips back, resting against the sofa cushion next to his knee, hands over your face. With a heavy sigh, your hands fall away, gaze pointed upward at the ceiling. “I still need to pack.”

“I’ll handle it,” states Simon simply, returning the papers to the table.

“You don’t need to do that,” you insist.

Placing your hand on his thigh, you squeeze, and that one touch nearly sends him over the edge, diving into dark harbors where there is no anchor.

“S’all right, dove. Want to.” Simon reaches out and gently grasps your chin, tilting your face upward. Your lips part. An inhale. A shiver. Simon nearly moans. Nearly closes the distance. “Remember that outdoor market you saw on your first day?”

Your eyes widen, becoming eager. “Yes!”

“Want to go? Grab breakfast? Look around?”

With a delighted squeal, you throw your arms around his neck. The added weight startles him. Instinct ensnares him. Seizing your hips, Simon guides you into his lap, keeping you close to prevent you from taking him down to the floor with your happiness.

“That a ‘yes,’ dove?” he asks with a tease, tapping the tip of your nose.

You’re all flustered softness, a stark departure from your stubborn tongue and fiery gaze. Both suit you. Both are attractive.

“Can we go now?”

You’re asking permission, seeking his direction, and Simon nearly groans over this revelation. There is no power struggle here, no back-and-forth, no sharpened daggers to draw first blood. You’re waiting for him to lead, and to him, this is but a small fracture in the wall you’ve built around yourself.

“Right now,” he affirms.

Your eagerness carries in every step. From the flat to the open market, you’re bouncing on your toes, nearly coming off the ground. As the two of you approach the entrance, the amount of people thickens. You inch close to him, brushing up against the side of his arm. Simon reaches out to tuck you against him, and there is no resistance. You sink into him, placing your hand on his back, fingers lightly curled to anchor yourself. Sweet victory sings within him—a golden shine of pleasure. Not a single person here will question whether or not you belong to him. There is too much closeness, too much familiarity to believe otherwise.

Simon savors it as he guides you into the throng, relishing the way your eyes widen. Every booth and vendor have something different to offer. It’s…normal, and whenever Simon comes, he’s temporality transported back to Manchester during a market day or festival. Humanity isn’t gone. Not completely. There is still community—a sense of peace.

“Am I allowed to buy things?” you ask tentatively as you come to a stop at a booth selling canvas paintings.

“You bring your identification card?” You nod. “Then yes.”

“But how does it work?”

Simon’s gaze roams over the various paintings. “Which one caught your eye?”

You take a moment. “That one,” you murmur, pointing at a particular piece with various strokes of blue in different shades, speckled with white and gold. It reminds Simon of the ocean.

Reaching into his pocket, Simon withdraws his wallet. “I’ll take this one,” he says to the grey-haired woman puttering about inside the tent.

Her head lifts, a soft smile forming on her face. “Absolutely.” She retrieves the painting and sets sit down on a small folding table.

Simon turns his head to address you. “See that ledger there? She’ll write my name down and how much I spent at her stall.” He holds out his card and she takes it, pencil poised to write.

“And where does it go, exactly?” you ask, leaning forward slightly to watch the woman write.

“I have to send the ledger off at the end of the week,” the woman answers for him. “People at desks handle the rest.”

“The government tracks every purchase?” you question with disdain. “Sounds like overreach.”

“They’re not tracking what it is. Just how much.”

The woman glances up. “Are you new?” she asks, addressing you.

“Yes,” you answer slowly. “I came from…outside the wall.”

Her smile widens. “Welcome!” Picking up the painting, she holds it out to you. “You can have this one on the house.”

“Oh, no,” you laugh. “We can’t.”

“Nonsense. You’re new. I know you don’t have much. Take it.” She turns to Simon. “I’ll erase your name. Enjoy.”

Simon inclines his head, and ushers you away.

“I still don’t entirely understand,” you murmur, clutching the painting to your chest. “What prevents people from buying up everything?”

“Nothing,” shrugs Simon. “But expect some visitors.”

“Police?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s not very helpful, Lieutenant.”

“Told you to call me Simon.”

You come to a stop, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he reassures. “And going over your limit here and there won’t penalize you. It’s for people overconsuming. Being greedy. Wasting resources for a hit of dopamine.”

This time you nod. “That makes sense.”

“Hungry?” asks Simon, shifting the conversation elsewhere.

With another nod of agreement, Simon steers you toward the food. After stopping at each stall just so you can read the menus, the two of you finally circle back to a small bakery stand for warm blueberry coffee cake and a sausage roll.

The greasy meat melts on Simon’s tongue, chasing away the lingering aftereffects of last night’s excursion, but the real pleasure is watching you enjoy your food. Every bite is followed by a moan or a pleased sigh. Under the shade of a tree, your shoulders wiggle each time you go in for another fork-full.

When you’re done, the two of you head off again, meandering through the crowd, lingering to look at everything, stopping to listen to the live music. You’re perfectly content, swaying in the sunshine, and Simon has never been happier.

This could be us. This could be our normal.

But he’s not going to push. He’ll simply enjoy, admiring you as you find joy in the moment.

Your happiness is his happiness. Your pleasure is his pleasure.

This is what Kyle meant. To exist and be present. To offer you something other than protection and security.

But will you make me happy, is what you said to him in response to that offer. Is this what you meant? Even if it’s only a fraction of what you’re imagining. Is it enough to open the door? To allow him in?

“Oh my God!” you exclaim, releasing Simon’s hand to rush over to a booth overflowing with flowers and plants.

For a moment, you disappear amongst the greenery and color. Simon approaches slowly, frowning as he seeks you.

But then your head pops up with a massive smile on your face. “I can’t believe they have them!” You disappear again, only for Simon to find you on your knees before a spread of daisy-like flowers with a dark, cone-shaped disk in the middle. The stems are fuzzy, and while most of them are yellow, there are a few clusters in pale purple and pink.

“These were everywhere back home,” you sigh as Simon comes to a stop beside you. “Zac and his group went out on a supply run. Came back with a bunch of flower seeds and dug up wildflowers. No one knew if any would make it. But these,” you gesture toward the flowers, “survived. They were in everyone’s garden. Had a whole bunch right outside my bedroom window.”

They remind you of home. And that is enough of a reason.

Simon turns, seeking the owner of the stall. “I’ll take these.”

The man Simon addresses perks up at the sound of his voice. “They come in—”

“All of them,” interrupts Simon.

The man gawks, almost frozen to the spot. “All—all of them?”

He doubts, and that’s expected. Simon is hoarding a singular item for himself, but he could give a shit. This is for you, and he has the authority to do so.

Without speaking, Simon shows the stall’s owner the gold circle on his identification card. Like ice melting under the sun, the man moves to action. “Absolutely, sir.”

“Can you have someone deliver them?”

“Certainly.”

You’re still on your knees, mouth open in disbelief. There is a rebuttal forming. Simon can see it in your body language. But the man is already taking Simon’s information, addressing a younger man, likely his son, about moving the flowers.

As they move away to grab gloves, you stand abruptly, rushing up to Simon. “That’s too much,” you insist with a whisper. “You said—”

“I can. And I did.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. The surprise turns to elation. “Thank you,” you murmur, your eyes becoming watery. “I love them.”

“Grab a few for the walk,” urges Simon.

With flowers in hand—called coneflowers as you so happily inform him—the two of continue walking around the market, exploring every corner and stall. Morning becomes afternoon, and when you yawn, Simon takes you home.

“Oh—shit,” you laugh, placing your hand over your mouth as the you enter your flat.

The flowers were delivered while the two of you were still out, and Simon inwardly preens over it. The things are fucking everywhere, even in the bedroom.

“Thank you. Again,” you murmur, reaching for him.

Simon expects a small touch, but you go for his hand, squeezing gently. And you don’t let go. You step closer. Closer. There is silence, and yet Simon’s heart hammers, nearly buzzing in his ears as you cozy up to him. He is unable to reply—unable to gloat. This intimacy is different, and he’d hate to break the illusion.

Your voice is a ghost, hardly audible over his thudding heart. “Can I ask you something, Simon?”

His reply is automatic. “Course, dove.”

“When—” You pause. Lick your lips. Gather your courage. “Before. When we—” Another pause. You place your free hand between your breasts, rubbing slightly in nervousness. “Would you have pulled out? If I had asked?”

Before. Before.

When Simon had you spread wide and under him, your tongue lashing his heart with venom all while you still begged for him. Would he have pulled out? Would he have honored that if you asked?

“No.”

“And now?” you continue, moving your hand to his chest, palm flattening.

Simon inhales deeply, pressing into your touch. Fingers find skin and then he’s cradling the side of your face, thumb resting just below the curve of your bottom lip. The truth is best, and like he’s told you time and time again, he doesn’t lie.

“Answers the same,” and it ends on a possessive growl. “I want all of you.” Simon tightens his grip, pulls you in close. “That includes the right to come inside you.”

“You think that’s romantic?” you ask, but there’s no snark in it—no bite.

“No,” replies Simon. “But it’s the truth. It’s how I feel.”

Such a confession should be a sin.

But you have one of your own.

“I don’t think I would have cared.” Your voice is still so soft. So…gentle. “In the moment.”

“And now?” echoes Simon, needing you to answer, to give him any confirmation of a possible future.

Your gaze shifts upward, meeting his. “Maybe.”

There. A subtle shift. Simon notices the desire, and the hesitation. You do want him, but there is a barrier. A separation. There is more that you need. Perhaps reassurance, or a promise.

“I’m leaving for a while,” is all he says.

There is no point in hiding what’s coming, and he’d rather tell you now than right before he goes.

“You’re leaving?” you exhale. “You—but you just came home. You can’t—” But you catch yourself, shutting off that final word as if you’ve suddenly realized what you were about to say.

“I have to go,” he says for you. “It’s my job.”

Your hand on his chest lowers. Shifts to his waist. Fingers gripping his shirt. “How long?”

This is the part he hates the most.

“Could be a week or two. Could be a few months.”

“A few months?”

“We don’t know what we’re heading into.”

You shake your head. “Do you know where?”

“There’s unrest happening. A Safe Zone is under siege.”

“You’re heading into a warzone,” you state solemnly.

Simon releases your hand, only to wrap his arms around your waist. “Afraid so, dove.”

He hates this nervousness—this worry that clings to you. The attention and concern for him is confirmation that you care, but the downturned mouth needs to go.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” you whisper, and Simon holds you tighter.

Asking might be dangerous. You may reject him. If you do, that’s Simon’s final chance slipping away. But you might say ‘yes.’ You might let him in.

“I never finished,” he murmurs.

You arch an eyebrow. Laugh. “That’s not a question.”

Oh, dove. It is.

“Soap cut it short. Been long enough that I’ve forgotten what you taste like.”

Simon’s head dips, closing the distance until the tip of his nose brushes against your cheek. Yet you do not flee. There is no snapping reply, no sharpened spite to lash his veins. Every flutter of your eyelashes and subtle shift of your body indicates that you’re not opposed to it. And when you press into him, your lips parting slightly, hope surges within him, seizing bone and blood until he’s buzzing.

“That’s what you want.”

“It is,” he confirms.

Risk can have its reward, and Simon does just that. He moves in, lips hovering just shy of your own, your breath warm and panting against his skin. Your lids grow heavy, and with a groan, Simon grasps the nape of your neck, arching it to tilt your head back.

No asking. No seeking consent. Just his lips finding yours, wanting to be accepted but knowing rejection is the likely outcome.

But you, the sweet thing that you are, do not push him away.

The little moan you make as you grasp him in desperation is all the answer he needs.

Chapter Text

Weak.

You are weak.

Such small gestures seem to crack you open, revealing your insides as if you’re a sacrificial animal. Bones become tokens. Shaken. Dropped. Read. Deepest desires—fears—smeared in bloody perfection. How easily Simon severed you. How fresh.

I’ve forgotten what you taste like.

How sharp the blade.

“That’s what you want.”

A simple statement. You need not ask it as a question. From the start, you’ve known this. Simon’s physical desire for you. It’s a living thing. Alive. Nearly monstrous. Does he think you don’t know? That you don’t see it?

“It is,” confirms Simon, moving in.

Your stomach flips. Fluttering. Driving up into your throat and down between your thighs. Lips dangerously close to yours. Seeking. Muscles and limbs move of their own accord. You go up on your toes, lips parting, eyelids growing heavy with the anticipation of Simon closing the distance. Of taking what he’s clearly craving.

But he wants more.

Grasping the back of your neck, Simon forces your head back, throat arching slightly as he makes your mouth available to him.

A kiss is nothing. Simple. Fleeting. So short a thing. Easily given away.

But when Simon seizes what he’s after, the fire it unleashes is untamable. You moan, hands grasping his biceps, fingers digging in to keep him in place. As much as you push him away, another side of you is interested, and it snatches all control.

Weak.

You are weak.

And for the moment, you don’t entirely care.

Simon’s consumption is slow and deliberate. He drags each kiss out. Savoring. As if storing them in memory. The thought is sobering, devolving some of the ignited fired into cooler embers. He is leaving. Heading into a warzone. While you don’t doubt his abilities, survival is never certain. Not when you’re a potential target.

I’ve forgotten what you taste like.

If Simon wants to spend the evening with his head between your legs, you won’t deny him.

Keeping one hand on the back of your neck, Simon’s other hand descends over waist and hip, curving to your ass, squeezing so hard you nearly come off the floor.

“Simon,” you gasp, startled by the upward momentum.

“Want you like I had you,” and there is pure desperation in his voice. “Naked. And open for me.”

You were a deviant that day, wanting nothing more than to feel a man between your thighs. To feel full and wanted. To be fucked without emotion. There you were, on your back, completely bare, hands beneath your knees, holding yourself open for Simon’s gaze. But you didn’t know him as Simon then. Just Ghost. Just Lieutenant.

Today, unlike every day before, the relationship is different. Shifted. A wisp of vulnerability that wasn’t there previously. You want to explore it. Just a bit. Tease it into the open to find out if Simon’s interest is deeper than carnal urges.

“Then take it off me,” you probe, a flare of naughtiness sparking in your stomach.

Simon’s answer is a pleased sound. Almost primal. You think he might as he teases the hem of your top. But Simon shakes his head like he’s chastising you for poor behavior.

“Want to watch you,” he murmurs with a playful smile.

Simon steps back. Drops his hands from your body. Gaze roaming over every inch of you as if he can see through your clothes. It takes all your strength to not look away from him, to retain eye contact rather than succumb to flustered embarrassment. Lying to yourself would be silly. It’s a nice sensation to know you’re desired.

With slow, creeping hands, you drag your top up and over your head, holding the fabric over your breasts for a moment before dropping it at your feet. Simon’s observation leaves nothing unseen, and when you go to remove your bra, you find yourself wanting to cover yourself from his gaze.

“Don’t,” he growls, but there is no venom in it. “Let me see you.”

You drop your arm, baring your breasts to him. Simon inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. His hands twitch with the itch to touch. One raises. Quickly drops. Lifts again. You’re hardly breathing—hardly moving as Simon reaches out.

At first, it’s the tips of his fingers brushing against your skin. Then it’s his palm softly resting below the curve of your left breast. Simon is transfixed, and you’ve only removed two pieces of clothing.

“Simon,” you manage to say, unsure of what you’re trying to accomplish.

As if yanked from a dream, Simon’s gaze snaps to your face. His hand drops sharply. “Couldn’t help myself, dove.”

You swallow. Saliva thick in your throat. “It’s okay.” You take that hand in yours. Bring it back to your body. Place it between your breasts. “You’re warm. I like it.”

Simon shivers, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he moves in. “Remove the rest. Or I might tear it off you.”

Your pussy clenches at the threat.

Oh, fuck.

Simon’s hand lingers on your body even as you wiggle out of your pants and underwear. The moment you’re completely naked, Simon surges forward, dragging you against him. Showing off his strength, Simon bends at the knees and slides his arms under your thighs, turning his hands up to grasp your ass as he lifts you off the ground and into his arms. You instinctually hook your arms around the back of his neck.

A few steps and you’re on your back with Simon above you, fully clothed. You close your legs but Simon grunts, his hands on your knees, forcing them open. The cool air brushes over your pussy. The muscles tense, and you know that Simon notices the small movement.

His chest heaves, and the look on his face is overwhelming. You’d think yourself a meal in his eyes, but that’s not right. Hunger is certainly there. But something hides beneath it, lurking in the darkest part of Simon’s brown irises.

You dare a chance. To demand from him.

Placing your foot against his stomach, you lightly push him back. “And what about you, Lieutenant? You were naked that morning. I…remember.”

Simon remains where he is, gaze assessing. “And what do you remember?”

I remember how much I begged for your dick.

“You want a barrier between us?”

Simon smirks, grasping your ankle. “You’re goading me, dove.”

You match his smile. “Is it working?”

Guiding your foot back to the bed, Simon reaches for his belt. The buckle clinks. Leather snaps. The front of his jeans is open as he removes his shirt, revealing thick muscles underneath. Both of Simon’s arm are tatted. Sleeves that start at his shoulders and end at his wrists. There are scars, too. Some hardly visible. Others jagged and distinct. But it’s the thickness of him that you’ve forgotten. That underneath, Simon is very much the soldier.

Simon holds your gaze a moment before he grips the top of his jeans, sliding them down over his thighs and to his ankles. He straightens his back. Hides nothing. Your gaze promptly shifts to his dick.

“Am I to your liking?” teases Simon, placing a knee on the edge of the bed.

There’s a bit of stiffness to him, like his full arousal is sitting on a sharp edge, waiting to tumble into existence. A heady memory resurfaces. One of Simon kneeling between your spread legs, jerking himself to hardness as you told him how much you hated him.

At the time, you did.

Now, not so much.

You’re still bitter about what happened. It wasn’t Simon’s place to yank you from your life, to drag you back to this goddamn city for the sake of humanity. The outside pressure of finding the nearest man to mount and breed is also its own slap in the face. If you want to fuck every man in this Safe Zone without producing a baby, that’s your choice.

It should always be your choice.

But the anger you had has ebbed. There are qualities in Simon that you appreciate, and his behavior today is refreshing after so much. He was soft with you. Patient.

You’re warming to him.

Frustratingly so.

And you’ll never admit it to him. You won’t admit it to anyone.

Sparks of heat bloom where Simon’s hands explore. Leaning on your elbows, you can only observe him while he enjoys himself. The slow way he explores is a subtle passion. Touching is enough for him. It could sustain him for the rest of his life if you allow it. It’s far from what you’ve known. You’re used to men getting to the point. Some quick rubbing, and then they’re balls deep, exploding after a few strokes. They don’t care for kissing. Touching even less.

But Simon is utterly absorbed with your body, content with where things are.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, squeezing your thigh. The bit of pressure he applies eases your leg wider. “Simply stunning.”

The appreciation in his gaze steals every snarky remark from your head. Not even Zac, who everyone back home thought you’d settle with, looked at you like Simon does now. It’s scary. Frightening. It’s the most vulnerability you’ve seen from him, and as much as it startles you, it makes you…happy.

Your time here has been laced with secrecy. Everyone dances around the truth, avoiding your questions until your head fucking spins. But today, Simon sat down with you, did his best to explain things. Not only that. He saw how overwhelmed you were, and he fucking did something about it. Simon took control of the situation, and you had the opportunity to simply exist, to enjoy the moment for the first time since your arrival.

It was attractive. Lovely. Action over words.

“You don’t mean that,” you breathe, wanting to hide from him.

It’s too much. Separation is paramount. It is how you’ve survived for so long. Not that you’ll escape this place. Not like you can climb over the walls or dig a tunnel underneath. You are trapped here, and this man is upending everything, causing you to question why there is such a thunderous fluttering in your chest.

Simon’s body lowers, one hand pressing firmly into the duvet. It sinks beneath his weight. You ease back, allowing him room—allowing him space as he settles above you. His fingers dance like snowflakes across your skin, melting at the contact, bringing heat as much as it brings a chill. Higher they roam. Teasing. Tracing.

“I think of you every day,” whispers Simon. His breath is warm against your cheek. A distraction to lure you to his lips.

And it fucking works.

Sensitive and soft. Pliable. You open for him, and Simon slides his tongue inside, his hand closing around your throat as he pins you to the bed. This is not what you imagined. It’s so much more. A twisting vine of desire. Sticky webbing that binds your bodies together.

“No,” you gasp between kisses. “You don’t. That’s not true.”

The denial shifts Simon’s focus. His grip on your throat lessens, but he uses his hips as added weight, keeping you pinned beneath him.

“What have I told you, dove.”

Your inner thigh grazes against his outer, your heel coming to rest on his calf muscle. Saliva sits heavy in the back of your throat. You attempt to swallow. Nearly choke on the truth.

“You don’t lie,” you murmur, hardly recognizing your own voice.

Simon steals a kiss, and it is all pure possession. “You think I’m lying now?”

Yes.

No.

“I don’t know,” you admit, because the uncertainty outweighs the trust. You want to believe Simon, but you’re also hesitant—weary of the future.

What happens if you let him in completely?

“You afraid of me?” asks Simon. “Think I’ll hurt you?”

This you know the answer to. “No. I don’t think you will.”

Amusement pulls at the corner of his lips. “You’re having a laugh now, aren’t you, dove?” His thumb presses to your bottom lip. Adds a bit of pressure. Drags it down enough for him to observe your canines. “Don’t think I want you?”

Your lip pops back into place. “I know you do.”

“Only want this moment with you. Before I go.” His nostrils flare, and Simon exhales slowly. “That’s all.”

Tentatively, you press your lips against his in gentle acceptance. Simon melts, returning the gesture. Intimacy is a fragile thing. Sacred. The two of you lie together like lovers. Entangled. Passionate.

But it’s only for tonight.

He’s leaving.

Simon cups one breast in his palm, thumb brushing over the nipple, bringing it to stiffness. You moan softly at the contact. The small break gives him an opening to descend, to explore your throat with his mouth, to nip and tongue on his way down. To suck one and then the other nipple into his mouth. Simon kisses between your breasts. Kisses the space above your belly button. Lower. Lower still. Your hip falls to him next. Then the inside of your thigh.

Closer.

Closer.

Simon’s groan of pleasure is palpable. Thick. His nose nuzzles the space above your clitoral hood, breath warm against your sex. Veiny forearms snake up and over your thighs, becoming hooks—becoming anchors.

His name is on the tip of your tongue, awaiting release, to be brought into the world. The moment it unfurls, Simon’s tongue runs over your pussy. A soft lick. A tease of a taste. You shudder. Gasp. Simon’s arms tighten around your thighs, tugging you closer to his mouth.

Just as he slid his tongue inside your mouth, Simon mimics the movement with your pussy, the tip of his nose pumping against your clit. The muscles in your thighs tense, squeezing the sides of Simon’s head. He appears unbothered by the pressure, his tongue working in and over you in lazy strokes.

Simon adjusts his grip on your left thigh. Instead of a hooked arm, he retreats, using his palm as a weight. Easing that leg back, you’re opened even wider, unable to do anything other than take his tongue in whatever pace he wants to set.

There is no hurry. No rush. No lashing or rushing need. Every nerve is firing. Your skin aflame. Writhing. Wiggling. Gasping for air until you’re nearly breathless. You claw at the bed. At Simon’s arm. Nails dig in, leaving half-moons behind.

Your lungs are full of him—full of Simon.

Smokey. Minty. Mixing with the tinge of sex in the air. Of the scent of your arousal. The blissful floral bite of the coneflowers.

It’s headache inducing. Brain-splitting.

You are perfectly ripe. A bloody pomegranate. Flush grapefruit. Simon is the fingers breaking the skin, shearing you open to get at the gorgeously plump flesh beneath. He sucks at the sections, separating the juicy pulp from the rind, consuming you until there is nothing left.

The orgasm is a hammer, nailing you into the wood, pushing you down down down—down.

That is when the blood comes, when your nails pierce Simon’s flesh, when your back comes off the bed in ecstasy. Simon sucks on your clit harder, pulling a fierce scream from you.

Bright and blinding, the room quiets, your senses narrowing down to a pinpoint. All you know is Simon’s tongue on you, lapping lazily as the orgasm flows through your limbs. Numbness comes next. A floating cloud of peace. Your nails retreat, leaving little bloody smears behind. Simon kisses your pussy. Kisses your clit. Pushes up and leans on an elbow, inserting one finger then two, pumping slowly.

With a heavy head, you glance between your thighs, only to find Simon’s heated stare, lips and chin glossy and messy.

“Thank you,” he says, voice raspy. Simon presses his arousal-slick lips to your thigh.

You lick your lips, finding your throat and tongue a bit dry. All that damn screaming betrayed you.

“I—” you begin, stuttering slightly as a muscle tremor seizes your legs. “I want to touch you.”

Simon pauses, his fingers to the knuckle inside you but unmoving. “Do you?”

“Come here,” you breathe. “Please.”

A slow drag of his fingers, and then Simon pops them into his mouth, sucking them clean. With a groan, he eases up your body, and you don’t care that your arousal is all over his face. Grasping his cheeks you bring him to your lips. Simon flattens himself over you, his rock-hard erection resting in the space where your thigh and pelvis meet.

“So sweet,” murmurs Simon against your lips, returning his fingers to your sex.

You clench around him and moan, head falling back to expose your throat. Simon runs his sticky lips over your neck as he sets the pace with his fingers.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans.

Your pussy responds to him, sucking on his fingers, drawing him in. In moments, you’re a whimpering, moaning mess. If Simon wants you to touch him, he doesn’t appear to be in any hurry for it to happen. While you’re unraveled, you’re not the only effected party. Simon is wound tight, the muscles in his arms tense, the veins taut and prominent.

A second wave of pleasure builds in the base of your spine, thrusting forward, exploding outward. Sensitive is not the right word. Your skin is buzzing, limbs curling around Simon as he fucks you with his fingers.

“Please,” you beg. “Simon.”

“Please, what?” he croons.

“Wanna touch you, too.”

Begging isn’t pretty. Not when sweat sticks to your brow, and your throat is dry. But regardless of how Simon has treated over this past month, you long to be a participant, to make him fall apart just as he’s done to you.

Simon has to be aching—needing relief. You want to please him. Not from obligation, but from a deep desire to show him that you see him.

“What are you doing, dove?” he asks as your fingers reach for him. Simon’s hips flex backward, retreating from your touch.

“Simon,” you beg. “I want to.”

He shakes his head, lips returning to yours momentarily before leaving again. “What do you want to do? Tell me.”

Simon’s forehead presses against your temple, and you turn into him, noses brushing. “Can I touch you? Just touch. That’s all.”

Your fingers brush over his abdomen. The muscles react under your touch, tensing with anticipation. All he asked for was to taste you, to put his mouth on your pussy. You can ask for this.

When your fingers find him, you lightly tease the vein that runs along the side. Simon’s breath hitches, and you seize the opening. He is hot and hard in your hand, clearly needing release, and while your limbs are quickly becoming limp noodles, you want to give him this.

Simon groans, leaning into the movement, hips thrusting shallowly to meet your strokes. You shift your legs wider, sliding them up to hook over the backs of his knees. A feral sound comes from his throat, and it goes straight to your pussy. His thrusts lengthen, and you picture not your hand he’s fucking, but your cunt.

The two of you are entangled.

Simon, draped over you, trapping you against the bed, and you with your legs over his, keeping him close. You know Simon is nearing his end. You can hear it in the way his grunts slowly taper into stilted whimpers.

“I want to watch you come, Simon.”

The words tumble from you unbidden. A confession before taking communion.

But Simon has a different agenda. The controlled leash is yanked from your hand and returned to his. Pushing up and out of your hold, Simon kneels between your spread legs. You reach out, but Simon shoves your hands away, grasping your hips. Your legs are forced into a bent and spread position, angled toward your chest. The stretch hurts, but it’s not what startles you.

All you can do his watch as Simon rests his cock against your pussy, rock his hips back and forth through your wetness. It’s a slow movement—a light thrust. The head of his cock bumps your clit with each pass.

There is no penetration, and for a brief flicker of an instant, you hate it.

“Fucking hell,” growls Simon. “Taking everything in me not to fuck you.”

When you reach out again, all you can grasp is his hand. Simon accepts it, continuing to rub against you, sliding up and down your sex. The head of his cock teases your clit with each movement, and you suddenly don’t care anymore.

You’re strung out on orgasms. Simon is worshipping you. And this room smells of home—of the garden outside your bedroom window.

It’s suffocating.

“Fuck,” he growls, nostrils flaring, muscles tensing.

There is a brief pause, and then Simon grasps the base of his cock, pumping himself once…twice. His release explodes from him, and lands all over your clit. You feel it dripping down your pussy, moving close to the space that had only taken his fingers and tongue.

As you sit up, Simon slides two fingers through his cum, rubbing it over and around your clit. The orgasm that built earlier returns, returning you to your back as your hips flex into his attention. It is so consuming, you don’t notice Simon’s actions at first.

Not until it ebbs.

And then you know it for what it is.

“What are you doing?” you gasp, shoving yourself upward, reaching for his wrist.

Simon withdraws his fingers from your pussy, but the damage is done. All of it is inside you. Every drop.

“What—” Tears bloom in your eyes. You swallow. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Dove—”

“You fucking BASTARD!”

You hurl a pillow at Simon, but he knocks it away easily. With a feral growl, you lunge, but it’s a silly notion. Simon is bigger than you. Stronger.

“Stop,” he snarls. “Calm down.”

“How dare you.” You swipe at him with an open palm, but Simon seizes your wrist right out of the air, pinning your arm against your stomach.

You attempt to headbutt him. It’s a shit try. Simon leans away, and you nearly fall over—face first.

“It’s not what you think.”

He sounds desperate. Not angry. Simon’s brown eyes are severe. Troubled. Like you’re absolutely fucking crazy.

Oh, fuck this asshole.

With a strength that surprises you, you yank your arm out of his grasp, fingers poised to gouge out his eyes, to tear him from your memory. To destroy all of this.

“Fuck you!”

As you lunge again, Simon scoops you up and shoves you onto your back, trapping you there.

“Calm down,” he repeats, trying to control your flaying arms. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” you laugh hysterically. “Are you fucking serious?”

The middle of Simon’s brow is cut in a deep v. Concern paints his face, and you want to drown in your sorrow. Is he gaslighting you? Is he truly attempting to cover up what he’s done?

“Get off me,” you snarl, showing your teeth.

“Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what I’ve done.”

If Simon won’t go, you’ll run.

The decision is swift. Survival instinct more than anything. Simon doesn’t see it coming.

Your fingers find the slim vase on the bedside table that holds a bouquet of coneflowers. It’s not heavy. Easy to swing. Simon glances up just as you bring it down on the top of his head.

Glass shatters. Explodes outward.

Simon lunges forward, spreading himself over you, taking the brunt of the impact. You’re not even controlling yourself anymore. The urge to run has bloomed in your chest, that ancient reaction flaring hot.

You’re scrambling. Pushing.

Metal tinges the air. Blood.

“Dove, stop. Stop!”

Glass clinks around you. Tiny pinpricks bite at your skin.

“Please.”

It’s Simon’s voice.

“Get off me,” you gasp, shoving.

Shoving.

Shoving.

The smell of blood intensifies, and the tiny bites become achingly sharp. You shift, and the lash of pain that smashes into you has you crying out.

There is blood dripping down Simon’s face.

There is blood in his hair.

“Dove,” he murmurs, and his tone gives you pause.

His eyes are a bit wide. A bit worried.

Your cheeks sting. You choke.

Sob.

“Dove.”

Chapter Text

“That’s the last of it.”

A pair of bloodied tweezers lands with a soft clink in a shallow metal pan. It’s small. Rectangular. Filled with red. Filled with glass. Each a painful, sparkling reminder. Each a fragment of boundless torture.

“Should shower,” continues Simon, his voice low, bordering on soothing. “To be sure.”

Mustering any response is impossible. Even with the glass gone, your back still aches—still stings from the bite of those tiny shards. An injury that could have been avoided if you hadn’t panicked. If you had calmed down and listened rather than assumed the worst of him, the evening wouldn’t have turned out bloody.

The tiny cuts in your back are nothing compared to Simon’s. He sports worse slices, and he’s hardly tended to them. Rivers of dark red stain the side of his face, stemming from a deep cut above his right eyebrow. Smaller cuts pepper his head and neck were broken glass made a home. Bloodied and naked, mouth and chin still slightly glossy from your arousal, Simon is the warrior returned from battle, uncaring of his wounds and only wanting his woman.

It's a heady visual, yet your heart burns. Burns with lust. Burns with anger. Burns with hunger. Burns with betrayal.

How could you, Simon?

“You’re bleeding,” you murmur, because it’s true and you don’t know what else to say.

Simon shows no indication that it bothers him. “So are you.”

“I’ll be fine,” you breathe, nearly laughing at his concern for you. There is far more blood coming from him. The cuts deeper from taking the brunt of the impact.

And you will be fine. Physically. Cuts and scratches and bruises and blood and everything else can heal. It can mend. Be washed away. But there is a deeper wound, one calcified to your marrow, leeching and sucking and squirming around like a cancerous slug.

“I’ll turn on the water,” replies Simon, reaching for the shower curtain.

Simon deserves nothing from you.

“Stop.”

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“Your face, Simon.” You’re looking over your shoulder at him, observing how the blood is both terrifyingly attractive and desperately worrying. “There’s glass.”

“Had worse.”

Stubborn fool.

“Doesn’t matter.” You’re reaching for the tweezers. Reaching for the bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Glass can’t stay.”

“No,” agrees Simon, his fingers lightly dancing over the cuts on your back. “It can’t.”

Pouring the alcohol over the tweezers in your hand sends rivers of it into small cuts in your skin. You hiss, nearly dropping the tweezers in the sink.

“Here,” he murmurs with a tenderness that causes your heart to drop into your stomach.

The twisting yank between affection and frustration turns sour in your gut. Your lungs are incapable of filling to capacity. Only shallow breathes will do.

You swat away his hand, giving Simon your back as you shake off the excess rubbing alcohol. “Sit,” you instruct with a nod of your head toward the toilet seat lid. “You’re too tall.”

Simon disregards your bluntness. Stepping around you, the tips of his fingers ghost over your hip. It sends a shiver through. It is duality in motion—a flare of desire mixed with hesitation. The two of you are naked, standing in a bathroom that is far too small to hold the both of you, covered in drying blood.

You hate him. I don’t hate him.

You’re angry with him. I’m terrified, Simon.

The plastic lid of the toilet groans under Simon’s weight. Leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, he tilts his head to the side, presenting the worst wounds to you. Wounds that you made. Perhaps you overreacted in the moment. You allowed the primal instinct that’s kept you alive to take over, and in turn, it betrayed you.

That’s all you remember, really. Everything else is a bit of a blur. Even Simon, the shape of him, and his fingers moving inside you, is fuzzy. Almost…warped, as if it wasn’t entirely real. It’s not a good feeling, but it’s tangible. At least you’re not numb.

Of what you recall the least; it is Simon’s fingers and the amount of cum he guided into your pussy. As you sanitize the tweezers, you try to recall that moment in as much clarity as possible. The hot spurt of cum against your clit. Gentle fingers swirling it around until you were brought to orgasm. Penetration. Thick and perfect and so good you were on the verge of asking Simon to fuck you. At the peak of your climax, Simon inserted two fingers inside you, fucked you with them as if they were his dick.

The tweezers are cold in your hand.

Did Simon push his cum inside you? You swear he did, but why do you doubt? Why? Cum-laced fingers are still cum-laced fingers. There’s still a chance. And Simon risked it. Without asking.

“Stay still,” you murmur. You shouldn’t be nice to him. Fucker. “Don’t want to nick you.”

Tweezers find glass. Lift. Remove. Falls amongst its siblings with a clink. You don’t speak, and Simon remains mute as you find the tiny shards imbedded in his skin.

Clink.

Simon clears his throat.

Clink.

“Can I explain myself?”

Clink.

Silence.

Clink.

“Dove.”

“If you try I’ll put it all back,” you growl.

Simon grimaces as the tweezers find a deeply embedded piece of glass. “You think I did it on purpose.”

Clink.

“I know you did,” you retort.

Clink.

“I did.” Your hand pauses at Simon’s admission. “But you’re wrong about why.”

Clink.

“Don’t enlighten me.”

The last of what you find drops into the metal pan. You set the tweezers down on the sink. Blood stains your fingers and the porcelain. As you step away, Simon reaches out, his large hands grasping the backs of your thighs to tug you between his spread legs. Reactively, you place your hands on his shoulders, pushing back as if you’re strong enough to break his hold.

“Picking out glass wasn’t an invitation,” you snap.

Simon appears unperturbed, his expression pensive. “We should talk about this.”

You may be calmer than when you were smashing a glass vase over Simon’s head, but you’re not levelheaded. You’re a worn rag that’s been twisted one too many times. Falling apart yet holding on by a thread. Your nerves are fried, and those blackened parts have soiled your mood. A spark still lives within you—a primal anxiety wanting to gnash its teeth.

You press the back of your hand to your forehead. Rest. You need rest. And an uninterrupted sleep wedged between a mountain of pillows.

“Fine,” you growl. “You want to talk?” The attitude comes roaring forward and you inwardly cringe. This is exactly what you didn’t want. To show how on edge you are. “I’m sorry. Happy?”

Simon frowns. “For what?”

“For,” you gesture at his head. “Using your cranium as target practice.”

“Is that normal after you orgasm?” asks Simon in a monotone voice.

“What?” you blurt.

“Don’t think my skull can handle it.” He shrugs. “But I’ll try.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Is he serious? “Are you—are you making a joke?”

Simon’s hands tighten on your thighs, squeezing in a way that is far too intimate. Your body betrays you, responding to him, the space between your legs igniting with excitement.

He avoids your question. “A shower,” he nods his head toward the closed curtain. Simon lightly slaps your left cheek and releases your thighs, standing.

You take a step back, but there is little room in such a small space. “You said you wanted to talk about what happened?” Another step has you bumping into the wall.

“We don’t need any lingering glass,” he says, retrieving a couple towels and setting them aside but within reach of the shower curtain.

A headache starts to form behind your eyes. “You can go first,” you reply dismissively.

Simon glances over his shoulder. “We’re showering together.”

The headache intensifies. “That is not necessary. I can wait.”

Simon fully turns to face you. Thick rivulets of blood drip onto his tattooed arm. Red amongst black. Trailing down. Coating hip. Coating thigh. Staining—you stare at Simon’s face with extreme intensity. You will not look down. You will not.

“My mouth was on your pussy, dove,” he says casually, using the back of his hand to wipe away blood on his chin. He smears it. “Think we’re past modesty.”

With a grimace and a twinge of embarrassment, you attempt to stand your ground. “You’re insulting me.”

“How?” he asks. “It’s true.”

“That’s not the point.”

Simon takes one step forward, and then you’re truly backed against the wall. “We both need it. Why waste warm water?”

You snort with disbelief. “Unbelievable. Using the same trick as before? How original.”

There is no calmness in your heart. The defensiveness is rising again, curling into an itch that longs to lash out with wagging tongue. It wants to slice into him, severing limbs, and opening fresh wounds. Fists are not your ammunition. Not if you can help it.

“It’s not a trick,” he sighs, as if you’re a petulant child in need of a good scolding.

“But do I have a choice, Simon?” The venom of your words burns your lips. “Seems I ask you that a lot. I find that interesting.”

His expression is serene, almost pitying. You fucking it.

“There’s always a choice, dove.”

You’ve grown to like the pet name Simon uses with you, but right now, you want nothing more than to squish it under your foot like a pesky bug.

A choice. There is always a choice. An illusion of selection.

It’s not a lie to admit that you enjoyed yourself today, that you liked spending time with Simon outside of…everything. His arrival at your door was unexpected but not unwelcome. The way he sat beside you, spoke softly to you, tried to help you through the overwhelming stress showed him in a different light. You saw the man beneath. Not the killer. Not the kidnapper.

Then he took you away from it all for a bit, allowing you to feel fucking normal for once. The coneflowers were an unexpected but lovely touch. A piece of your home. You had said so, and Simon did everything to bring it here to you.

But it’s a game. And why are you surprised? You’ve been using him, too. Something to latch on to. A back-up in case things go south. It’s clear that he wants you, and that is easy to manipulate, but is it manipulation when you’re constantly penned into a corner by those around you? Are you making any progress? Or are you only digging yourself a hole?

No. You have no room for mercy.

“You keep proving how much of a selfish bastard you are,” you murmur. “You take whatever you want. And give me nothing.”

The truth of how you feel drips from you like a bloody faucet. This is not how you wanted things to go, but the words have already been said. Can’t take them back. Better to surge forward and be done with it.

Simon simply stares, and you hate how you cannot discern what he might be thinking. “You think I’m selfish?”

You laugh. It’s watery. A drowning quality. “Yes,” you breathe. “You’ve even admitted to it, Simon.”

“I know,” he admits without hesitation.

“Then why ask the question!” you exclaim.

Simon takes a step back, turning toward the shower curtain. He yanks it open, revealing the simple showerhead that juts from the ceiling and the lopsided tile work that desperately needs new grout. The metal temperature knob surrenders to him.

“I’m only selfish when it comes to you.”

A metal pipe in the wall clanks loudly. Water trickles, and then becomes a steady deluge.

You wrap your arms around yourself protectively. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Simon studies the water for a few long seconds. Extending his bloodied hand, he presents it, palm upward, toward the showerhead. As the water hits him, it mixes with the drying blood, turning into pink rivers that travel along his forearm and drips onto the floor.

He removes his hand, lightly shaking off some of the excess. “It’s hot,” he declares, ignoring your question.

You guffaw, pressing your palm to your forehead. This man is unbelievable. And you nearly fucked him. “I’m not taking a shower with you,” you declare, as if that will change anything.

With a sniff and a blatant crack of his neck, Simon grabs you by the waist, shifts you around, and guides you under the hot water.

“You asshole!” you shriek.

Simon playfully taps the tip of your nose. “You’ll be fine, dove.” Grasping the back of your neck with both hands, Simon tilts your head back until your hair is covered by the stream of water. “Can’t let you keep the glass.”

He stands directly in front of you, his body caging you in, feet planted on either side of yours. With the curtain partially in place, it creates a private alcove where there is no one in this world but the two of you. It’s hard to focus with Simon’s hands on you, how tender and soft they are, how caring he is even after everything.

You smashed a glass vase over his head. Clawed at his face. Spit at him. Snarled. You were pure desperation. Bottled frightened doe. A caged animal scenting slaughter. The years after, when you were alone, they’ve changed you. Made you frightened of everything.

I thought you were over this.

Simon is an asshole for what he did. Listening is the last thing you want to do because it’s too soon. You need space. You need to think. To have yourself some peace before you can even fathom speaking to him.

He’s leaving.

“I can wash my own hair,” you growl.

“You’re injured.” Simon shrugs. “Let me handle it.”

You arch your neck in an attempt to free yourself from his hold. But there is no space. No room. Simon stands in front of the only exit. It is you, wedged between him and the tile wall, unable to flee but not entirely wanting to.

Anger is a brute force. While it swells inside you, there is tenderness that coats it like a comforting blanket, wanting to soothe the flames. It’s fucking annoying.

You decide on sharpened tongue. “You think you can take whatever you want.” Simon lathers up the shampoo. Ignores your quip. “That’s how you’re selfish. You take from me as if you’re owed it.”

Simon’s hands fall away from your scalp. He rinses his hands. “I take whatever I want.”

It’s not a statement. Not a question. He’s hearing you, but you sense that Simon is about to turn this entire conversation on its head. And still you push. It’s what you always do.

You form fists. Bring them down on his chest. It’s a pathetic blow. Slides right off his water-slick skin. “I can write you a whole goddamn list,” you snarl.

Simon grasps your wrists, but it’s not to stay your wayward hands. He pins them to your chest, shoves you back with enough force to startle you but not hurt. The momentum sends you toward the tile wall, but Simon is careful of your back, bringing you flush against him rather than awakening those fresh wounds.

“I could take whatever I want,” he murmurs, gaze intense. “I could have. And I didn’t.”

“Well, congrat-u-fucking-lations,” you mock.

The middle of Simon’s brow creases, and you swallow down the next snarky thing you were going to say. A dangerous man stares back at you. The same dangerous man you met that horrible day. In that stare is territorial possession. Wound around it like twisting vines is brutal violence, as if ready for any exterior threat.

You lick your lips. The water there faintly tastes of shampoo. “You haven’t always given me a choice.” Your hands flex, fingers stretching. Simon’s grip on your wrists slackens but does not release. “That’s what you don’t understand.”

“And I keep telling you—"

“Don’t you dare,” you growl. “You had no right.”

Simon shakes his head. “I fucked you with my fingers.”

“Fingers that had your cum on them.”

“Hardly.”

“Don’t minimize this,” you hiss. “I was scared, Simon. You scared me.”

A crack forms in the brutalness of his gaze. Softening, it returns to a look that is familiar and comforting. “I’m sorry if I scared you. That wasn’t my intention.” His grip on your wrists tightens ever so slightly. It’s a whisp of a tug. A fleeting pull that draws you in. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No. You weren’t.”

“I’m trying to talk this out with you,” he huffs.

The arrogance of this man.

“And I said I needed space.”

Simon mouth turns downward. “I leave in two days.”

“Plenty of time,” you reply.

He releases your wrists, running his hands over his face in agitation. “What is it that really want to say to me?”

“Fucking Christ, Simon,” you mumble, attempting to turn away from him. Without proper clearance, you only manage a slight shift to the right.

Simon grasps your chin, forcing you to look at him. Some of deluge gets into your eyes. You blink rapidly, twisting your neck to break his hold, but he stays firm. “Say it.”

“You’re trying to impregnant me.”

Simon’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s not—”

“Cut the shit,” you snap.

Simon matches your energy. “I was pussy drunk.”

“That’s a weak fucking excuse.”

“It’s not a lie.”

“But it’s not the whole truth,” you insist, stepping into his space, allowing your anger to settle in. If Simon wants to talk, the two of you can fucking talk. “What do you even like about me?”

Simon blinks, clearly startled by the question. The thought has been nagging at you. Festering.

“What makes me special?” you breathe, pushing more. “Is it my womb?” You place your hand on Simon’s chest, splaying your fingers wide. “A new toy?” A soft stroke. A tease of a touch. Simon’s eyelids flutter.

Fucking bastard.

“A soft cunt to stick your dick in?”

Simon’s nostrils flare. The hand on your chin shifts, falling to your throat. Squeezing. “Or a wife,” he adds with a growl.

“No wonder you tried to baby trap me.”

The flash of irritation flares and quickly dissipates. His hand around your throat eases, lowering until it’s resting against your collarbone. “I’m just a man.” His gaze lingers where his hand rests. “And you were fucking perfect under me. And I—” Simon’s hand slowly ascends, encircling your throat again. “I had one thing on my mind.”

Men always do. You don’t entirely fault him for that. But it’s not an excuse.

“I don’t have space for forgiveness,” you murmur, voice barely audible above the running water. “Not yet.”

This admission displeases him, but he doesn’t verbalize it. Instead, Simon reaches for the conditioner, and all the steam rushes of you as if you were hit by a bus. Everything crashes. Slows. The only energy you have left is reserved for standing. Staying afloat. Simon understands, because he doesn’t goad you or attempt to continue the conversation. Under the warm spray, he rechecks your cuts, scrubs away the blood with soap. All of his attention and care is for, and somehow, it’s not sexual.

There is no groping. No unwanted touches. His movements are practical and purposeful, wanting to cleanse and clean rather than seek intimacy. This act alone brings tears to your eyes. An adrenaline drop that makes you lightheaded.

“All done,” he murmurs, hooking his pointer finger under your chin, tilting your face up.

You’re boneless. Empty. Yet you’re not unfeeling.

You exhale, and the words that follow hurt. “You next.”

Simon drops his hand, observing you as you pick up the soap. Lathering it, you start with is arms, fingers running over the tattoos, scrubbing away the rivers of blood. At your feet, the floor turns red, then pink, then clear once more.

Tentatively, you press your fingers to the space just under the cut in his head where the glass vase impacted. It’s not as deep as you thought. A surface wound. Something that will heal easily and cleaning with time. It’s not pretty though, and it’ll just be one more scar amongst the many he already has.

Once Simon’s body is clean, you reach for the shampoo, careful not to allow any of it to run into his head wound. It’s a slow process, but neither of seem in any hurry. Simon, to his credit, bows his head for your convenience, unbothered by the fact that his neck has to hurt from the angle.

With a light touch, you cradle the side of Simon’s face. His gaze sweeps toward you, and then his head lifts. The water is starting to cool, but you’re warm inside.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe.

“We’re back to that?” he teases.

You start to drop your hand, but Simon ensnares your wrist, bringing your palm to his mouth. It’s a light brush of his lips. A gentle kiss to your flattened skin, just in the dip. A fracture forms in your heart—a breaking of resolve. You’d give anything to stand outside, alone, in the dark, and scream.

“What do you think would happen?” you ask softly as Simon lifts his head. “If it took?”

The shift is slight—almost imperceptible—but you see the tension, the seizing of Simon’s muscles. His gaze is assessing, eyes shifting over your face as he considers the question. A beat of silence. Movement. Simon reaches behind you. Shuts off the water.

“It’s late,” he states.

You blink, surprised by Simon’s sudden withdrawal. He wraps a towel around you, and you sink into it, holding it close to your body as he unabashedly steps out of the shower fully nude. He quickly runs his own towel over himself, draping it over his neck once he’s done. You keep your focus everywhere but his nudity.

Entering the bedroom, Simon heads for your closet. With a confused frown, you follow.

“What are you doing?” you ask as you discover him with an empty duffle bag.

“Packing your clothes for tomorrow,” he replies, glancing at your clothes with a considering expression.

“I—”

“You can’t stay here.” Simon gestures toward your bed with a quick nod.

You slowly turn, and wince at the destruction. The bed is intact but it’s covered in broken glass, crushed flowers, and stained, bloodied sheets.

“And stay where?” you ask, tentatively.

“With me.”

“That isn’t necessary,” you say quickly. “I can stay with Hannah. Or Eloise.”

Simon pivots. “At this hour?”

You check the time, and know that he’s right. They likely won’t be up. And it’s not like you know where either of them live.

Simon returns to rummaging through your clothes. “I’ll wear this,” you interject, grabbing a few things off the hangers and handing it to him. Simon stuffs them in the duffle bag, and heads for the bathroom, throwing in a few of your toiletries.

It’s nice not having to think, to not do something for yourself. And as much as you’re upset with the situation, a small part of you is melting under this attention and care. It’s fucking frustrating. Downright confusing. Two days isn’t nearly enough time to figure it out.

And when he leaves, there is a chance he won’t come back. What will you do then?

A sharp tightness seizes your stomach, twisting and tangling until you have to remind yourself to breathe deeply. It takes all your energy to focus on grabbing yourself some clean clothes, to dress, to find shoes and pretend that you’re not on the verge of collapsing. The only reprieve is that the walk to Simon’s apartment isn’t far. Only a building over, and a couple flights of stairs.

Bone weary. Sluggish. Every step is stiff and slow. You hardly notice the details. Hardly notice the layout. You simply follow Simon into the bedroom, sighing with happiness when the bed comes into view. Limbs move on their own, guiding you onto the soft duvet, or tearing it back to nestle underneath the sheets, to burrow amongst the pillows.

The bed dips beside you, and the spell is broken.

You turn onto your back to face Simon, but he’s not sliding in beside you. He sits on the edge, expression pensive.

“You can stay here for the night. You’ll be safe. When you leave in the morning, turn the lock on doorknob. It’ll lock behind you.”

You lick your lips. Find them dry. “Are you not staying?”

Simon shakes his head, fingers flexing where they rest against the duvet. “Need to take care of something.”

You nod, sinking back into the bed, the warmth of it seeping into your bones and softening your muscles. Simon shifts. Starts to get up. Sits back down. Leaning in, he reaches out, grasping the side your neck, cradling it like you’re precious.

His eyes are watery. “I’d cherish the both of you.”

Simon abruptly pulls away, grabbing his jacket as he exits the bedroom. You listen in the silence, closing your eyes when you hear the front door shut. Every breath hurts. Stings. You’re starting to drown. To fracture. This place is suffocating.

You’re not sure when you drift off. It’s almost instant in the way you go from consciousness to nothing. What you do recall is Simon’s scent, how it clings to everything, how nice and comforting it is as sleep lulls you into its embrace.

It’s a blanket.

An envelopment.

Your lungs are full of him.

Chapter Text

“What happened to the stack of inquiries?”

Hannah ravenously shifts through stacks of papers next to the ancient fax machine. The fossil of a device beeps, whirs, and fires up again, sounding like it’s about to launch itself into space.

Eloise absently sips from her coffee cup. “Which ones?”

With a huff, Hannah snatches the new fax from the machine. Glancing at it, her eyes scan the page. A clipped laugh. “Fucking waste of paper.” Hannah crushes it into a ball, tossing it into the nearby recycling bin.

She pivots on her heel, addressing Eloise. “The ones you’ve been ignoring,” replies Hannah with clipped irritation.

“Oh,” muses Eloise. She slowly glances away from the document in her hand to peer at her coworker. “Those.”

“Yes. Those,” emphasizes Hannah.

Their bickering is simply background chatter. You’re unfocused. Confused. On the verge of fully disassociating.

Simon never came back. You awoke, tangled in his sheets, smelling of him, and yet the man was nowhere in sight. Not even a goddamn note. Where he went last night is still a mystery. All morning you’ve mulled it over in your head, considering every possible option. It’s a fruitless endeavor. Anxiety is your companion now, sitting sour in your stomach.

Simon’s absence isn’t the only thing nipping at you. What he said before he left still lingers—still repeats like a pounding drum.

I’d cherish the both of you.

An admission. A glimmer of emotion from a brute of a man. It’s fucking maddening, and so goddamn frustrating you’re not sure if you want to cry or scream. Yet it’s not even the worst of it. The matter of contention, of what happened, what he did or what you perceived him to have done, compounds like an insufferable weight.

Inquiries are important. Your job is important. But focus is flimsy and gone and slipping beneath your fingers with every battered word that Hannah and Eloise exchange. When they switch to French, you completely tune them out.

Birth control. Abortion. Of what you understand, which is little, they aren’t options for you. Or, perhaps they are, and Joann is withholding that little nugget. The anxiety worsens, pushing out of your stomach and into your chest.

What will happen if you become pregnant? Was there even enough of Simon’s cum to actually matter?

“Hm.” Eloise’s lips purse like she’s considering something.

“Hm?” mocks Hannah. “Hm? That’s all you have to say about it?” The fax machine starts up again. “I don’t have time for this!” Reaching behind the bulky beast, Hannah yanks the cord out of the outlet. It immediately shuts off, the whirring becoming a soft sigh as if it were human and not a machine.

 “Finally,” groans Hannah. “Some fucking peace.”

Eloise points the tip of her ball-point pen in Hannah’s direction. “Don’t let Arthur see that.”

“Arthur isn’t here,” snaps Hannah, waving her hand dismissively.

You only have so much time. It’s a short window to prevent fertilization and implantation. There are herbal remedies. Back home, that’s the option you went with to prevent pregnancy. If you could find the ingredients here, you could make a tea. Drink it down and cross your fingers.

Eloise huffs, shaking out the document as if it’s dirty.

No. You have to ask. You have to. There is protection in community. Hannah and Eloise have never made you feel out of place.

“Can I ask you something?” you blurt.

You flinch slightly at how loud and desperate you sound.

The two women glance in your direction, their features shifting into soft surprise and curiosity. Hannah opens her mouth to answer, but you continue on, knowing that you need to get this all out before you back down and give up.

“Not about this.” You gesture in the air vaguely, indicating the room. “It’s about something else.”

Eloise exhales with relief. “Oui.” She tosses the document over her head. “Gladly.” Hannah rolls her eyes at the gesture but says nothing.

A nervous itch sets in. You don’t realize you’ve been chewing on a fingernail until you taste the coppery bite of blood.

You drop your hand into your lap. “What are the rules around…birth control?”

The two women stare at you like grass is growing out of your ears. Eloise’s head is tilted slightly, as if she didn’t hear you correctly. Hannah is a dead fish, her mouth opening in a soft o. They exchange a look, the silence stretching. As it starts to become awkward, Hannah decides to answer.

“Have you not talked about this with your gynecologist?”

“My—” you stammer. “My what?”

“Do you know what a gynecologist is?” asks Hannah, clear concern on her face.

“Yes. Yes, I know. I just—no? I mean—” You press your palm to your forehead. You feel hot. Feverish. “Am I supposed to have one?”

“Are you supposed to have one?” repeats Hannah. “Did no one assign you one?”

“I—I don’t think so,” you reply honestly, but you don’t know. You have no clue about how any of this works.

Hannah, clearly no longer interested in the missing inquires or the ancient fax machine that looks like it’s smoking, comes over to your desk. “What about a g-p?”

“Like a general practitioner?”

Hannah nods.

“No?”

Eloise chimes in. She leans forward in her chair, placing her elbows on her desk. “Have you been to the hospital?”

You play with the end of your sleeve, glancing down into your lap. “I had exams done when I was brought here.”

“At the hospital?”

“No. They had me quarantined outside the wall.”

Hannah places her palm on the edge of your desk, her expression serious. “Have you not been registered with the hospital?” You shake your head. “Were you assigned a dentist?” Another shake. “Did your transitional advisor go over any of this with you?”

When you don’t reply right away, a sliver of anger creeps into Hannah’s features. It’s clear that this information bothers her.

“Why are you asking?” she asks softly.

You like to think the best of people, but all these years running on pure survival have altered the way you interact with others. While you trust Hannah, the voice of doubt is still present, lurking at the back of your mind.

“Well—”

“Wait,” she interrupts, holding up both hands. “Don’t answer that.” With a heavy sigh, Hannah rubs at her temples. “Okay. First thing. When did it happen?”

You blink. “When did what happen?”

“The sex,” answers Eloise, her tone blunt.

“There wasn’t—” You splutter. “I didn’t—”

Amusement creeps into the corners of Eloise’s eyes and mouth. Her lips form a knowing smile. Whether or not you and Simon actually had sex is irrelevant. He ejaculated on your clit, used it to rub it, to pull forth a blissful orgasm that had you so strung out that you didn’t notice his cum-coated fingers sliding into you at first.

They don’t need the details. They don’t need the meat of it.

“Yesterday,” you admit. “Last night,” you correct. “But it’s not what you think!”

A tone shift. Hannah is no longer irritated with your transitional advisor’s shitty professionalism. There is more to all this, and you’ve been given fucking scraps of the reality.

Hannah lightly taps your leg with the tip of her shoe. “Who was it.” She taps again. “Spill.”

Eloise wheels herself out from around her desk, scooting herself over on her chair. Rolling to a stop, she plants both arms on the tabletop, resting her chin in her hand. “Tell us about him.”

“I didn’t say it was a man,” you mutter.

Eloise snorts. “If it’s not a man, why are you asking about birth control?”

“Fair point,” you mutter.

“Oh!” Hannah perks up, clapping her hands together. “Was it the one who came here on your first day?”

Eloise sits up, her excitement palpable. “Lieutenant Riley?” She shivers with pleasure. “Is he big?”

Hannah guffaws. “He has to be.”

The two women giggle hysterically, slapping at each other as if the three of you are teenage girls at a weekend sleepover.

“Is that important?” you ask, bewildered.

“No,” replies Hannah, her smile softening just as Eloise replies, “Oui. It is.”

Hannah waves off Eloise. “The man has a bit of a reputation.”

A reputation? It’s possible. Not like you’ve really talked to anyone about him outside of communicating with him directly. An outsider’s perspective might be nice. Reflective. Shine some light on all your anxieties. Ease them a bit.

“Does he?” you question, voice a bit small.

Fuck. Is he an asshole? Certainly. The man did snatch you from your home. Kidnapped you if you’re being completely truthful with yourself. But “having a reputation” could mean fucking anything.

Eloise nods. “Many women have tried to tie him down. No one’s been successful. But,” and she points at you, “he likes you.”

You brush it off with a clipped laugh. “And how would you know that? Can you read his mind?”

Eloise shrugs. “How many times has he stopped by during your lunch break?”

Goddamn her.

You shrug, tugging on the lobe of your ear, glancing off to the side. “It’s only been a few times.”

Hannah blows raspberries. “Try nearly every day.”

“That is not true!” you exclaim.

“He did,” confirms Eloise. “I counted.”

Flabbergasted, you watch as Eloise pushes away from your desk in an exaggerated flourish. The wheels squeak as the chair spins her back. She picks up her planner, lifting it in the air like a victory trophy. Without momentum, she starts inching her way back.

“Get out of the fucking chair,” mutters Hannah, reaching for the planner.

Eloise snatches it away from Hannah’s grasp and swears at her in French. When Hannah scowls down at her, Eloise flashes you a bright smile. “See.”

You lean forward. See her notes in different colored pens. It doesn’t take you long to pick up on where she’s marked Simon’s appearances. They’re correct, and you know they are. There is no use denying the truth.

“We know it’s weird,” adds Hannah. “But we were both in on it!”

“That doesn’t make it less weird,” you reply dryly.

Hannah dismisses your comment with a wave of her hand. “Not the point. You’re asking about birth control.”

Eloise snaps the planner shut. “Did you let him finish inside you?”

“Eloise,” you breathe.

You have no idea what I almost let him do.

She waggles her finger. “Naughty girl.”

“Oh my God,” you mumble, covering your face with your hands, wanting to melt into the floor.

“We’re not here to judge,” Hannah says quickly. “We can talk about the other stuff later.”

Eloise hums in agreement. “Your transitional advisor is a bitch.”

Hannah rolls her eyes. “Eloise. That is not helpful.”

“You can tell him I said that,” she says with confidence.

“But it did happen last night?” asks Hannah.

“Yes,” you nod.

Hannah pushes off from your desk, heading for hers. “There’s still time. I’ll go to the pharmacy.”

“There’s a pharmacy?”

Hannah keeps talking, disregarding your question. “I’ll grab a few things. And something you can take now so you don’t have to try and negotiate out of a potential pregnancy later.”

Negotiate out of a pregnancy? The very idea of having no control stuns you to the spot. Cold creeps in, turning your blood to ice.

“Is abortion illegal then?”

Eloise and Hannah both stop in their tracks, looks of disgust plastered on their faces. “No,” they answer simultaneously.

“But there are…stipulations,” Hannah adds, opening a drawer in her desk. “It’s a bit,” she wiggles her fingers, “prickly.”

“How so?”

Hannah’s lips part slightly as she leans down to retrieve a small purse from the drawer. “If it’s not medically necessary, you need to be below a certain number of weeks. Or have a damn good excuse.”

There is no elaboration. Just a statement of fact. It’s more than what you had before, but the new information only causes further questions and deeper anxieties. Trapped. That’s what Joann wants—what the government wants. To have you contribute to the gene pool. To be breeding stock. They just dress it up and present it nicely to not scare anyone off.

Hannah retrieves her coat. “If Arthur comes back from his meeting while I’m gone, tell him I went to the bakery.”

“The bakery on the corner?” Eloise checks the time. “They’re closed.”

Hannah sighs dramatically. “Tell him I went to take a shit. I don’t really care, Eloise.”

The moment Hannah leaves, you find yourself spiraling again. Numb and unsure of what to do next, you simply sit at your desk, staring off into space. There are books to catalogue, to scan, to cross-check with the digital database, to print copies of those books and put them out into the library for people to check out.

So much to do. Yet you are stagnant like still water. Focus is fleeting. A sharp wind that snatches a precious item from your hands, shepherding it away forever.

You do not check the time. Do not do anything except wait for Hannah’s return. And when she does, she comes with a full bag. A mountain of stuff emerges from it, creating a mess on your desk. You nearly choke in surprise, startled by how much she’s brought with her.

“How the fuck did you get all this?” You pick up boxes of condoms, several reusable menstrual cups, and multiple boxes of emergency contraceptive.

Hannah beams with pride. “I have a medical exemption.” You glance up, ready to dig around, but Hannah continues on, clearly understanding how much you need this. “I have endometriosis. We’re lucky to still have the technology we do. The war destroyed a lot, but it didn’t erase everything.” Her happiness faulters slightly. “Treating endo isn’t a top priority. And since it can cause complications with pregnancy, infertility, and a host of other issues, I’ve been giving an exemption.”

“No adding to the gene pool for you?” you ask.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Though her tone has cooled, there is a sadness in her gaze, lingering just behind her irises. You recall the pamphlet you read about the different pillars. Genetic contribution is the first. The most important.

You gesture to one of the emergency contraceptives. “Which gets you this?”

Hannah laughs. “They literally cannot tell me no. It’s great!”

Eloise inclines her head. “She’s saved me a few times.”

You take it all in, looking over every box and container. “But, is that legal? Sharing this with me?”

“Technically, no,” winces Hannah. “But no one is policing it. There are…bigger issues. And while they want babies, they also don’t want an excessive amount.” She shrugs. “Resource distribution and all that.”

You pick up one of the emergency contraceptives. It’s simple. Plain. The packaging is minimal with only directions on it. No warnings. No dosage. Not like the packaging you’d see before the world collapsed. It’s also hard, like the exterior packaging can be sanitized and reused.

“Is it safe?” you ask hesitantly, placing the contraceptive down.

“Yes,” affirms Hannah. “A few of the Safe Zones are designated for drug research and manufacturing. Each Zone has their thing.” She starts picking up the items you haven’t touched. “I’ll keep these in my desk. And we can talk about the rest another time.”

The overwhelming pressure in your body refuses to abate. Additional clarity did not bring comfort.

“It’s a lot to take in,” you agree, and you hate how defeated you sound. A bit pathetic. Small.

Eloise is at the electric kettle, heating water. Hannah dumps her coffee into the sink and rinses out the cup. “Especially when you’re coming in from the outside.” Hannah grabs a towel, wiping it out. “You’re doing well. Not everyone does.”

A small box sits in front of you. Emergency Contraceptive, it reads in bold, black lettering. You open it up. Tip it toward your palm. A plain white pill drops into your hand. You stare at it a moment, considering.

It’s a flicker of hesitation. A brief concern.

And then the doubt is gone. Blinks out.

You throw it back. Take a sip of water. Swallow it down. Run your tongue over your teeth.

“Are we going to your place tonight?” asks Hannah as she drops a fresh tea bag into her empty mug.

Shit. You forgot about that, too worried about Simon to remember that you have a whole fucking apartment to pack up. And a bed covered in glass. Scattered coneflowers on the floor.

“Yes,” you breathe, taking another sip of water. “Need help packing. Moving some boxes.”

The key to your new apartment sits heavy in your pocket. It’s supposed to be a fresh beginning. A chance to reset. But it’s nothing more than a nicer cage.

The rest of work is a blur. There are books and papers and filing and marking things off the checklist. All of it robotic. A rhythm. Simple tasks that are utterly brainless and leave you hollow.

Walking to your new place is just as weighty, the only beacon being Hannah and Eloise and their constantly happy chatter. It’s nice having someone. You have no friends. No family. You have these two women. And Simon.

Maybe.

“My neighbors are going at it again,” bemoans Hannah. “It’s at all hours.”

Eloise snickers. “You have rabbits in your walls.”

“Oh God,” cackles Hannah. “Can you—what the fuck.”

The abrupt change catches you off-guard. You’ve had your head down, gaze on your feet. Your head snaps up, every nerve alert and on edge. The front door of your apartment is propped open. No. Not propped. As you step closer, it’s entirely off it’s hinges. From it comes male voices, banging, and thuds that rattle the floor.

Eloise peers over your shoulder. “Could have told us you ordered movers.”

“I didn’t,” you murmur.

Frowning, Hannah takes the boldest step, striding forward like she’s about to chew out whoever is inside. She makes it to the frame, and then deflates, shoulders sagging as she takes in whatever she finds. It’s enough motivation. You and Eloise follow, coming to a halt as you draw up beside Hannah.

“Looks like you won’t need help moving anything,” says Hannah.

“No,” you agree, a bit breathless.

The apartment is completely furnished. You take a step inside. Then another. Kitchen cabinets sit open, revealing cups, plates, bowls, mugs, and various storage containers. In the living room is a sectional sofa, clearly secondhand but still in good condition. There are matching bookcases, the shelves empty and waiting to be filled. In front of the sectional is a plain wood coffee table with a rug beneath it.

“Is that a television?” you laugh, disbelieving.

As you head for it, a large shadow passes into your peripheral. You shift. Turn. Glance up. Heart fluttering with excitement.

“Excuse me.”

The voice is wrong. Not deep enough, and not British.

It’s not him.

You step to the side as one of the movers carries out a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. You track his movement, as do Eloise and Hannah. When he’s out the door, the two women scamper over, grasping your arms.

Hannah squeezes your forearm. “You didn’t order movers?”

“No,” you blurt. “I had no idea this was happening.”

The middle of Eloise’s brow pinches. “Who—” It softens, understanding arriving on its heels. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you gasp. “Oh, what?”

Eloise’s mouth upturns into a sharp smile. Mischievous. Wicked. She waggles her eyebrows.

Hannah reaches out and smacks her arm. “You don’t think—”

“I do.”

They both start jumping in sync, shaking you until the room starts to spin. “Knock it off,” you groan.

“It has to be,” giggles Hannah. “Who else?”

A retort forms on your tongue. You want to deny, to chase the thought away. This can’t be why Simon left and never came back. He’s about to leave. Surely he has other responsibilities.

“You must be the new neighbor!”

You, Eloise, and Hannah turn at the exact same time. A stout man with grey hair stands in the open doorway. He’s beaming, clearly excited about someone new in the building. From the way his gaze darts between the three of you, the man doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be addressing.

“I am,” you reply, extending your hand.

“I’m Marvin,” he exhales with relief, taking your offered palm. It’s a firm, warm handshake. “Glad to finally meet you. Met your husband already.”

“You—you met my husband?”

Marvin nods. “Big guy. Military. First met him when he was viewing the place.” He gestures at the room. “Was here all morning and afternoon with the movers. Just left actually.” Marvin inclines his head. “Surprised you missed him.”

Simon. He’s talking about Simon.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“I was at work,” you reply, playing along. “Brought my coworkers to show them the place.”

Hannah and Eloise blessedly feign ignorance, agreeing with firm nods.

“Lovely place,” says Hannah.

“Exquisite,” adds Eloise.

Marvin’s brow softens. “And all those flowers he brought in?” He whistles lowly. “That man loves you. It’s good to see that. Given the state of things.”

“It’s so nice,” sighs Hannah dreamily.

Eloise is still nodding her head. Hasn’t stopped since Marvin walked in. “True love,” she affirms.

You almost laugh out loud at how forced their sincerity sounds. They’re eating this up. Enjoying every second.

“It’s a bit small, though. For children.” As if realizing what he’s just said, Marvin clears his throat. “Excuse me. Didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “The marriage is…new.”

Marvin’s gaze grows distant as if recalling a fond memory. “Ah, young love.” Coming back to himself, Marvin clears his throat, tapping his chest. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He backs up, waving as he goes. “Tell your husband I said ‘hello.’”

You simply nod. Wave.

The second he’s gone; you nearly collapse to the floor. Eloise and Hannah slowly turn in your direction, their smiles knowing and ecstatic.

“Don’t,” you warn, but they’re already on you.

Dragging you over to the sofa, they force you down onto it, taking up spots on either side of you.

“Did you couple up without telling us?”

“You married Lieutenant Riley?”

“And you didn’t say anything?”

“How big is it?”

“I bet it’s huge.”

“Stop,” you say sharply, cutting your arms through the air. “We are not married.”

Eloise arches an eyebrow. “But you slept with him.”

No, Eloise. I did not sleep with him. He ate me out, gave me multiple orgasms, and then finger fucked me with his cum.

“Simon and I are not a couple,” you reply, staying firm.

Hannah draws back. She lifts her hand, extending her fingers with each thing she counts off. “You’re not married. You’re not a couple. You’re not together.” She pauses, glancing around the furnished apartment. Her gaze shifts to the open bedroom door, and her expression melts into delight. “And yet he did all this?”

You follow her line of sight. All the coneflowers have been collected, returned to their vases. They cover the bedroom. Standing tall on the bedside tables. The dresser. The fucking floor.

“I understand if you don’t believe me,” you begin. “But he and I are not…anything.”

“You called him ‘Simon,’” observes Eloise, staring at her fingernails as if they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“First name basis means nothing,” you mutter. “And furthermore. He was my minder during my probationary period. We were forced to be together all the time.”

Hannah pats your hand like you’re an ignorant child in need of comfort. “This isn’t the behavior of someone forced to be around you. He wants to be around you.”

You have no idea what you’re saying, Hannah. He wants so much more.

Simon’s words from last night, the ones you’ve been repeating in your mind come crashing forward, shoving down down down your throat and imbedding in your lungs, willing you to say them aloud. To speak them into existence.

I’d cherish the both of you.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say dismissively. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”

Eloise and Hannah’s voice rise to the same heightened pitch. “He’s leaving tomorrow?”

You sink back into the sofa. Fuck, it’s so goddamn comfortable.

Hannah shifts and rests her arm along the top cushion. “Are you going to talk to him? Tell me you are.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” you groan, placing your hands over your face, sinking further.

Hannah grabs your wrist, yanking them away from your face. Her and Eloise peer down at you.

“Talk to him,” asserts Hannah. “Tomorrow. Before work.”

“We’ll lock you out of the building if you don’t,” adds Eloise.

They don’t know what happened, what you’re trying to process. It’s all thick and loud and suffocating. Not talking to Simon, avoiding him before he leaves, might actually be for the worse.

“I’ll talk to him.”

The sun sits low behind the wall, casting everything around you in long shadows.

It’s early—far too early, but you didn’t want to miss your chance. You fidget in the same spot, standing off to the side, keeping your head on a swivel. The military zone is just starting to awaken. Most of the soldiers walking by are in rumpled fatigues, clearly not ready to face the day. They rub at their eyes. Yawn. Turn their heads to linger on you far longer than you like.

But you’re the odd one here. A civilian now. No chaperone.

And you don’t dare venture further in. Don’t stop any of the men walking past. You already tried that, doing nothing more than being a distraction, getting in the way of the people you were simply trying to talk to.

Simon might not even be here in this area. He could already be on the other side of the wall. Could be in a vehicle. Could be traveling. Could be far away at this point.

You’ve missed him.

You did.

He wouldn’t wait for you. Wouldn’t want to talk after everything. This is silly. Pathetic. Desperation on display.

You kick at the dirt. Swallow. Lick your lips.

More eyes on you. More men walking past. A few pause, shifting in your direction, considering whether or not they should approach. Panic rises. The feral rabbit crouched in the tall grass scenting the deadly fox.

This is a terrible idea. A farce.

Best to go.

Best to flee.

Your limbs twist, muscles straining. The instinct flares, and everything your body has learned the last few years falls into place.

“You’re here.”

Gruff. Husky. Deep and British and surprised.

You turn in the direction of Simon’s voice, sighing with relief. You don’t even realize what you’re doing until after its happened. You push off from the ground, fling your arms around his neck, hold on to him tightly. There is no hesitation with Simon. His arms wrap around you, keeping you against his body. Comforting. Warm. Such strength. It grounds you, fills in all your hollow cracks.

A wave. And then a crash.

You pull back abruptly, and Simon surrenders, accepting your reluctance.

“I—” you begin. “I wanted—”

“Hush,” soothes Simon, but it’s not condescending.

“Please,” he begs.

“Listen,” he urges.

You give him the slightest nod, encouraging him to continue. Inside your chest, your heart hammers, nearly drowning in its intensity.

“I have to go. We’re leaving.” Simon shifts on his feet, head tilting slightly. “But I need to say this.”

Even with the balaclava covering his mouth, you notice the twitch of his muscles beneath the fabric. If the two of you weren’t out in the open, you’d ask him to remove it. To see his features one last time.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. You were—fuck,” he mutters, pausing.

You place your hand on his chest, flattening your palm. Simon’s responding sigh is heavy. Sweet. As if your touch is all he needs.

“For a moment, you were mine.” Mine is a growl. Primal possession. It clamps around your throat. Squeezing. Stealing breath and function, extracting your thoughts right out of your skull. “And I indulged in what I wanted. To see my cum inside you.”

You inhale sharply.

“It’s not an excuse,” he continues. “I know that.”

“Ghost!”

The two of you twist toward the voice. Johnny waves at Simon, his hand swinging in a “come here” gesture.

“Fucking hell,” mumbles Simon. “This isn’t—I was wrong for it. But I won’t deny how I feel. Or what I want.”

He doesn’t say it. Not aloud. It is unspoken. Dust. Particles in the air lingering between your bodies.

“Ghost!” Johnny shouts again. “We’re leaving.”

Simon briefly glances in Johnny’s direction, but it’s only seconds before his gaze returns to you. There is softness in it. Longing. Deep within yourself, you know he wants to say more, to take as much time as he needs. But time is not on his side. Or yours.

“Don’t hate me for this,” he murmurs, before grasping the back of your neck.

Your lips crash against his, the fabric of the balaclava scratching your skin. His grip is dominating, his actions a mark of ownership before his peers. Simon wants them to know. Wants them to see. And you don’t entirely mind. But it’s over far too soon, and when you drift apart, you whimper, already missing him.

You hate this. Hate him.

Tumultuous and raw, you’re being split open, organs expelled for the sheer joy of it. It’s not fair that he’s leaving, that you have to do this alone, that you can’t simply go home.

“What’s this?” he asks, voice soft. A gentleness you didn’t expect.

You present the coneflower. A little wilted. Slightly crushed.

“Wanted you to have a piece of me before you go,” you admit lamely.

“Oh, dove,” sighs Simon, gently taking it from your open palm, gazing on it with reverence.

Tucking it into the inside of his uniform, Simon presses his covered mouth to your forehead. He draws back slowly, teasing you with a playful touch beneath your chin.

A step backward. Then another.

“Don’t forget me,” he says.

Simon’s gaze remains on you. Unmoving even as he saunters away. He taps the place where the petals of the coneflower peek out. Just over his heart. You watch his retreat, watch him join Johnny, watch him disappear.

Only then do you release yourself, finally moving your feet, ushering yourself away from this place.

Only then do you notice.

Only then do you glimpse the familiar face of a certain sergeant.

Chapter Text

“Have you considered all your options?

Joann’s voice is muffled. Distant. Another meeting that you didn’t agree to but were forced to attend.

You stare just over her left shoulder at the small bookcase. “Your flowers are dying.”

Joann arches an eyebrow. She turns, considering the glass vase with the lopsided stems and wilted white petals. “Your options,” reiterates Joann, returning her attention to you, completely disregarding your observation.

Your smile is forced. Nearly a grimace. “The library keeps me busy.” You shrug. Wave your hand dismissively. “Haven’t really had the time. Still settling in.”

“I’m glad you’ve found purpose.” Her voice is soft and encouraging. You’d mistake it for genuine joy if you didn’t already know what kind of person she is. Deception and subterfuge. A goddamn game.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

Joann inclines her head. “But I am a touch concerned.”

A celebration—a touch of positivity—before the letdown. Before the pivot.

“What about?” you ask, forcing yourself to keep your tone neutral and cold. The best thing to do is pretend.

“Your socialization.”

It catches you off-guard. “I don’t understand,” you laugh nervously. “I socialize all the time.”

Joann removes her reading glasses. “Yes. Of course. You’ve become close with your coworkers. Eloise and Hannah. Making friends. That’s all been noted in your file.” She gestures at the open file folder in front of her on the desk.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you stammer. Joann has a knack of bringing a baseball bat down on your head with every meeting. “Are you keeping tabs on me?” Your voice cracks—all that coolness melting away like ice under a summer sun.

And like she always does, Joann pointedly ignores the question. “In general, you’re social. Which, I will add, is a good thing. But when it comes to the singles socials you’ve been chronically absent. And you’ve shown no interest in fulfilling the most sacred pillar.” She sighs like it’s all a heavy burden. “I’m curious at your disinterest.”

“I—”

“Is someone making you uncomfortable?” You sure fucking are, Joann. “Did someone say something…inappropriate toward you during that first gathering?”

Fuck. This will go fucking nowhere except toward a lecture. And that is not what you’re about to receive today.

“No,” you reply sharply. “No. Nothing like that.” You swallow down the irritation. “I’ve just been busy at the library and with the archive—”

Joann hums and it stops you dead. “Sounds like your hours might need to be reduced,” she muses, clicking her pen.

“That’s not what you should be taking away from this.”

“You sound overworked.”

You scoff. “I love my job. Reducing my time there would be…hard for me. This is a big change and working at the library with the other archivists has brought normalcy to my life.” You shake your head, disbelief at Joann’s absurd suggestion still lingering. “And we’re so understaffed already. Reducing my hours would harm them. Give them more work. I couldn’t do that to them.”

Joann nods like she understands. But you know it for what it is. She does it at every fucking meeting because it’s easier for her. Placation that’s more shit on the bottom of your shoe than an attempt to find a different solution.

“That’s very noble of you,” she says in the exact same way she said ‘I’m glad you found your purpose.’

You feel it. Poking. Like something digging beneath your nails.

“Truly,” she continues. “Commendable. Preserving our history and culture is important. One of the main pillars.”

Creeping. Sludging forth to settle on the edge of the conversation. It’s stinking up the fucking room.

“But—”

There it is.

“—the first pillar is the most important. Contributing to the gene pool creates greater genetic diversity.” Her shoulders shake as if she’s about to burst into tears at any moment. “So many were lost during the war. Entire populations disappeared. We cannot lose that genetic code. We must maintain diversity to forever extinguish supremacy. To fall prey to that again could be our extinction.”

And yet everything you do is for the wrong reasons.

A sharp rebuttal is on your tongue. You are a person. A human being. You are not a womb. Not a breeder. You are whatever you say you are. Not what those left in power want you to be. But arguing back is pointless. To do so is an endless, vicious cycle. You do not make the laws. You are not able to vote. You are still an enigma. A pariah. Part of the whole but still separate. Assimilation is what they want and yet they do not fully immerse you in it.

“Joann,” you begin because if you say anything else you might break her fucking neck, “I see the concern. I really do. But the work I’m doing at the library and with the archive is fulfilling enough. At the moment, I don’t see a reason to bind myself to anyone simply for the sake of it. Shouldn’t these things take time? Shouldn’t I make sure I select the right person?”

Joann’s smile never waivers. “Of course. Well.” She returns her readers to her face, perching them on her nose. “Tomorrow evening there’s another social. I’ll put you down. Even if you’re not going to make a decision, it’s still good to explore.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” The words fall from your lips with blunt force. All politeness is gone. In its place is venom. This isn’t what you want, and no one is fucking listening to you.

This time, Joann’s smile cracks. The motherly, almost affectionate demeanor slips. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk, hands outstretched as she speaks, “Let me be frank with you. Ignoring my advice and guidance will do more harm than good.” Joann clasps her hands together. “Go to the social. Enjoy yourself. You might meet someone.”

Your voice is flat and cold. “I’m happy where I’m at.”

The last of Joann’s pleasantness fades, her tone becoming talon sharp. A harpy’s bite. “I’d hate to see this escalate.”

I’d hate to see this escalate. What the fuck does that mean?

You lick your lips, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip as you do so, sorting through the shifting sands within your mind. Navigating this is no longer an option. You need to remove yourself from this room and from this meeting as quickly as possible.

Survival. That is all that fucking matters.

“Perhaps it will be good for me. A break.”

Joann’s smile returns, beaming like the sun. “Perfect! I’ll put you down.”

“Thank you!”

“Bye miss-iz librarian!”

You laugh, waving at the small group of children. They’re in kindergarten. Ten of them. All clutching a book in their hand, saying their goodbyes loudly and with great enthusiasm as their teacher gently shepherds them through the connection doors between the school and the library.

It’s a nice break from the endless stack of books in storage. Helping them find a reading book to take home is a small beacon of the familiar. Back home, back with your community, you’d always spend extra time with the children, doing a reading hour once a week, listening to all their stories and requests. A subtle pang sears right through your heart. You miss them. You miss everyone.

“They’re cute. Aren’t they?”

The southern twang filters through your thoughts, yanking you away from precious memories.

“Sergeant Fields,” you gasp, placing your hand on your chest. “You startled me.”

Sergeant Fields is dressed in his military fatigues. No combat uniform. No tactical gear. Simple green camo cargo pants and a plain, form-fitting shirt in the same color with black combat boots. The only other adornment are his dog tags.

“Noah,” he smiles. “Please.”

You haven’t seen Sergeant Fields at all. Not in over a month when you went to see Simon off. He was there. Watching. His gaze set on Simon as he walked away with Soap. At the time, you didn’t think much of it. But now, he’s here, at your place of employment.

“This is a surprise, Noah. Haven’t ever seen you here. Come for a book?”

With arms crossed over his chest, he takes a step toward you, his gaze roaming over the shelves before settling on you.

“No,” he answers.

Simple. Clean.

“Did you come to read?”

“No.”

If he’s not here to read or find a book, there really isn’t any other reason for him to show up here.

“The computers aren’t set up yet,” you ramble. “Or I’d recommend those. The fact that we have any for potential public use is a big deal. It’s all very exciting.”

You sound breathy. Frantic. Sergeant Fields moves closer with every word and there is nowhere for you to scamper off to. Nowhere to hide. You’re pressed against one of the wood tables set out for guests of the library. And Fields is in your space, nearly on top of you.

“I didn’t come for the computers.”

“What did you come here for?” you ask, voice a whisper.

“I came,” he begins slowly, “to see you.”

Oh, shit.

“You—you came to see me?” You laugh. It’s nervous and sounds wrong to your ears. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Heard you were planning on going to the singles social tonight. You haven’t been. At least, I haven’t seen you at any recently.”

There’s no fucking way Fields heard that you were attending. Joann may have put you down for it, but from what you understand, the attendance list isn’t revealed to anyone except the event planners. Yet Sergeant Fields knows you’re going.

“Yes. Well.” You step to the side, giving yourself some space and air. “That is the plan.”

“To go?” he asks, moving with you anyway.

Fucking Christ.

“Yep,” you reply through clenched teeth.

Noah nods, lightly tapping his knuckles against the top of the wood table. He isn’t saying anything. Only lingers. Pushing into your space as if you invited him into it. Fucking presumptuous of him.

“Good,” he finally speaks once it’s clear you have nothing to say to him. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“That’s the plan,” you repeat.

Noah shifts, and it’s clear he’s expecting more. You scuttle backward, heading toward the ‘employee only’ door that leads upstairs to the archive.

“Good to see you, Noah.”

You don’t even check to see that he’s left. You rush through the door, shutting it firmly behind you, breathing heavily in the silence of the stairwell.

There is no plan to attend. Telling Joann yesterday afternoon that you’d go was a goddamn lie. An excuse is easy to conjure up. Your work is important. You are prompting and uplifting a central pillar. Every moment of your time is precious.

That’s what you can say. It’s what you’ve been saying every time Joann asks you why you didn’t go to yet another social hour. But it’s not the job. Truthfully—deep within your heart—there is a small hope. A flicker of a flame. A rough, razor-sharp brute of a man that you haven’t entirely figured out.

You’re waiting for him. As much as you hate to admit it.

And that thought of Simon, pushes all other thoughts away, even of Sergeant Noah Fields. You float through the rest, meeting various groups of children, all of them elementary age. As a group, you stalk the shelves, talking about dragons and princess, or space and exploration, of sports and games. They occupy all the space. And it’s nice.

Until it isn’t.

Until every good memory of the day is eviscerated by a man you don’t wish to see.

“Are you following me?”

You stare at Noah, clutching your work bag to your chest. He’s returned, this time loitering next to the door you exit when you head home for the day.

“I—what?” He pushes off from the wall. “Following you? No. No!” He runs his fingers through his hair, appearing slightly distressed. “I thought I’d walk you to the social. Since we’re both going.”

Goddamn it.

“Right,” you sigh. “I’ve had a change of plans.” You tap the side of your work bag as if there’s something in it you’re taking home.

“You’re not going?”

You don’t like how he asks the question. It’s not disappointment. It’s not anger either. The neutral way he delivers it reminds you of a cop subtly probing for information.

“Need to review a few things for tomorrow. Some paperwork.” You stand firm because it’s your best defense. You want Noah gone.

“You’re really not going?”

What the fuck.

“No. But it was nice of you to think of me.”

Your words are clipped. Short. Delivered with finality. Home is only a few blocks away, and you turn in its direction, intent on leaving Sergeant Fields where he’s standing.

“I’ll walk you home.”

You slightly turn in his direction even as you walk away. “Oh, no. That’s not—"

But Noah is right there, grabbing your upper arm, forcing you into his side as he escorts you down the sidewalk. You’re not walking. You’re being dragged. With every step you nearly trip over your feet trying to keep up with his strides.

He doesn’t ask for directions. Doesn’t faulter.

Does he know where you live? Has he been watching you? Or are you simply worrying for no reason? You did turn in the direction of your apartment. It’s a straight shot from where you’re standing. The idea that he knows exactly where you live might be all in your head.

“Keeping you busy then?” he asks with a chuckle.

Field’s laugh is sharp-laced. Biting. Metallic. There is no niceness. No curiosity. His fingers are tight. Already, you feel the skin growing tender.

“Very,” you manage, keeping your tone light and conversational. “There are only four of us. And far too many books for us to catalogue.” Noah increases his pace. “We really need more people.” The last few words are a gasp.

Noah nods like he understands but he’s not even looking in your direction.

You attempt to pull your arm from his grasp, but the man is a wall of stone, his grip immovable. It only draws you closer to him. It’s domineering. Possessive. Control-fueled and entirely against your will.

Simon is like that.

But this is different. Utterly. With Noah, it’s a cage. Hunting dogs herding prey toward their master. Simon, even when he’s annoying you, has a tenderness to him. A softness for only when you’re in his presence. There is an electricity within him. Sparking and wanting to ignite what might be in you.

With Noah, there is nothing. Absence. No spark or flame or interest. Just a pit in your stomach.

“I’m just down the road. Half a block. If that.” You’re still keeping your tone light, but even you hear the fracturing. Any more and you’ll be borderline hysterical. “No need to walk me all the way to my door.”

“Wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t make sure you made it safely inside.”

Noah turns his grin on you, and it is all lamb’s wool in wolf’s teeth.

“That’s kind of you,” you placate.

Noah yanks on your arm, nearly causing you to stumble as the two of you cross the street.

“Sure I can’t convince you to go?”

To the social? Absolutely not. You want away from him.

“I really need to look these over.”

As the two of you make it to the front of your building, Noah’s grip loosens, his gaze scanning the numbers on the buildings. It’s enough. With a quick jerk, you’re free of his grasp, shuffling up the stairs and to the double doors.

“Perfectly safe!” you exclaim.

Noah nods. Steps forward. It’s quick. So fast you don’t even realize until you feel the cool brush at the corner of your mouth. You’re too stunned to move. He lowers his voice, speaking as if he’s an option at all.

“Lieutenant Riley isn’t the only option.”

Wrong. Trapped.

Wrong and trapped and wrong wrong wrong.

“What’s this?” you manage to squeak.

You’ve only arrived minutes ago. Your coat isn’t even off yet. Bag still on your shoulder.

Arthur stands in front of his desk, features grim. Standing next to him is a stranger. A man wearing black military fatigues. His face reveals nothing. No emotion. No thoughts. He simply stares at you, his grey eyes slowly roaming down and back up.

Arthur clears his throat. “Commander Graves wants to see you.”

No. No no no no. You haven’t spoken to him since your probationary period. The conversation was quick, and Graves seemed completely uninterested.

You stare at the stranger. “I—I have to work.” You extend your arms to indicate the room. As if that even matters.

The stranger speaks, and you know there is no other option but to comply. “After you meet with Commander Graves, I’ll bring you back.” He offers a hint of a smile, and that at least appears genuine.

“It’s okay,” comforts Arthur. “We’ll see you when you come back.”

Moving is sludge. Thick. Sticky. Numbness is a friend as you’re escorted to a vehicle, driven to the military zone, brought to the same building to the same office to the same exact place you started when Simon brought you here.

“How are you settling in?”

What a fucking question.

“Fine,” you murmur.

Commander Graves sighs and settles back in his chair; gaze fixated on the open file in front of him. You don’t have to look to know. Joann had the same one in front of her two days ago.

Graves clicks his pen. Glances up. “No issues?”

“None that come to mind.”

Silence. Graves reads. Clicks his pen. Reads some more. He’s awfully fucking silent compared to the first time you met him. That time, he couldn’t shut the fuck up. The man was a prick, and you were happy to be done with him.

“Why am I here exactly?” You lean forward in your seat. “Is this normal? Have I done something?”

Graves glances up. “You haven’t done anything. This is simply,” he gestures vaguely, “a warning.”

A coldness creeps in. Ice in your veins. “Am I in trouble?”

That smarmy smile returns. This is the Commander Graves you remember. “No. Not that kind of warning.” His southern accent is similar to Noah’s but it’s more pronounced. Heavier. “Think of it as a lesson. I’m making you aware of the situation.”

“And what situation is that, Commander?”

Graves swivels in his chair, lips pursed like you should already know what he’s referring to. “The situation of ownership.”

“Ownership?” you choke. “Ownership over what?”

Graves points in your direction with his pen. “Of you.”

Comprehension fizzles out, leaving behind a creeping dread. “Why—why would you say that?”

“Lieutenant Riley’s claim is about to expire. End of the week if I’m not mistaken.” He rubs the side of his nose with the pen. “Once it’s up, anyone from the team that found you that day can claim you instead.”

Suffocating. A vice around your throat. A fist lodged in your chest.

“But I’m a citizen,” you whisper, a meager protest.

“No,” says Graves. “You’re not.”

“But my probationary period—”

“Does not make you a citizen,” he interjects, raising his hand. “A simple precaution. To make sure you won’t harm yourself or others.”

“That’s not—” Words are escaping, leaving you with nothing. None of this makes sense. None of it.

“Your family planner has been trying to match you with someone since Lieutenant Riley hasn’t filed an official claim.” Graves scratches his nose again. “Sweet of her. But pointless.”

You’re rooted to your chair, sinking into the cushion, the world around you tunneling to a pinpoint.

“When you were found,” continues Commander Graves. “By standard military law, the most senior officer at the time had the right to file a former claim of ownership.”

“Like property?”

“It’s a marriage contract,” states Graves. “Lieutenant Riley has every right to legally claim you as his wife upon bringing you to the Safe Zone.”

“You can’t do that,” you plead, the sudden chill morphing into a raging simmer.

“Standard military code zero-alpha-four-four created with accordance of the United Nations bylaws—”

“—stop—"

“—that all persons found and submitted for processing are—”

“—please stop—”

“—have the right to claim for the purpose of genetic contribution to the gene pool for the betterment of humanity.”

It’s a slow slump. A bending of your back. Hands over your face as your breathing intensifies.

“You can’t do this,” you whisper. “I’m not an animal.”

“It’s the law,” states Commander Graves without an ounce of emotion. “And Lieutenant Riley’s grace period is about to expire.”

Your eyes sting but you don’t cry. You won’t.

“And what happens then? When it expires?”

“Everyone else there that day have the right to file their own claim. I have several already that filled out forms waiting for the expiration to kick in. Sergeant Noah Fields is top of the pile.”

The conversation you had with Simon only days before his departure come roaring back. He warned you, kept telling you that you’d have to choose. That he, Simon, was the safest bet.

“But Lieutenant Riley isn’t here.”

“No. He’s not.”

“Then why hasn’t he?”

“Not interested.” Graves chuckles. “But from what I’ve heard, that’s not true.”

“What if I don’t want him? What if I don’t want any of them.”

“That’s not your choice.”

The socials that you’ve gone to. They’ve all been full of military personnel. Joann knew. She knew that Simon hadn’t filed and she was simply preparing you for the next person.

And Noah? Sergeant Fields is top of the list. No wonder he showed up at your work. He knows Simon’s time is up. He’s simply waiting him out.

“And if Lieutenant Riley didn’t file, could I say I want him? Is that a choice?”

Commander Graves’ smile broadens. He removes a piece of paper from your file, setting it to the side. “Lieutenant Riley did file but added an amendment. Wouldn’t send it through unless you’d agree to be his wife.” He sucks his teeth. Chuckling. “Bit sentimental for me but that’s the man’s choice.”

“But he isn’t here.”

“No,” agrees Graves. “He’s not.”

“And if I say yes? Right now? What happens?”

It is Simon or the unknown. A man that, despite everything, is a comfort to you. Or Sergeant Fields. Or someone else you’ve never met.

A choice. A lack of one.

But it must be done.

A closet. Metal walls. Metal bed frame.

Window grime. Sticky humidity. Lumpy mattress.

This Safe Zone is filth. A bloody war zone. It is loud and bright and dark. Electricity comes and goes. Sirens blare at all hours of the night. Sparking tails from aerial bombardment extinguish the stars.

History. Repeating itself.

Simon clutches the dead coneflower in his left hand. Your gift is flattened. Without petals. But he keeps it anyway. Its home is over his heart, tucked between tactical gear and uniform. It stays there always—a reminder that he has someone to return to.

In the dank storage closet of a room, Simon leans against the metal headboard, legs slightly spread, black cargo pants shoved down to mid-thigh. While his left hand cradles the coneflower, his right fists his cock, stroking roughly, each grunt guttural and frustrated in its intensity. It hardly compares to you. There is no softness. No breathy sighs of pleasure. No whisper of his name on your lips.

If he closes his eyes, Simon can picture you like you were that night. Under him. Begging. Glowing from the orgasms he gave you. When he’s alone, he likes to imagine all the ways he’d fuck you. How, on his return, he’ll find your belly round with his child.

Simon hopes. He dreams.

“Lieutenant!”

The pounding on his door rips him from his fantasy. With a deep sigh, his limbs relax, his body sinking into the lumpy mattress as whoever on the other side of the door continues pounding away.

“Ghost!”

“Piss off!” he barks, rolling his neck, the muscles stretching, vertebrae popping.

A pause. And then the pounding continues.

“Fucking wanker,” growls Simon, shoving his rock-hard erection back into his cargo pants.

Rolling up to his feet, he pulls them up, securing the button and zipper. Simon grabs a plain balaclava. He yanks open the door, saying nothing.

Johnny grins at him. “Captain wants you,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Simon pushes past him, slamming the door shut, the Scot on his heels, laughing to himself. “What’s fucking funny, Soap?”

“Nothing,” he says, snorting at he tries to stifle a chuckle.

“Christ,” mutters Simon, rolling his eyes.

As Simon enters the briefing room, Captain Price glances up, a small piece of paper in his hand. Coded message most likely, but it wouldn’t explain Johnny’s insistent giggling behind him.

“Captain,” greets Simon.

Captain Price nods, tapping the slim piece of paper against his open palm. “Not sure if you’ll find this news good or bad.” He holds out the slip of paper. Simon takes it. “You’re heading home.”

As he reads over the printed text, his brain momentarily stutters. He is going home, but not because of a court martial or insubordination. Not for anything he’s done.

Pillar I of the mandate is being invoked.

And Simon is being called for a different duty.

Chapter Text

Five days of waiting.

Five days of torment.

Five days of anticipation.

The cooling system kicks in with a rattle, sighing in routine intervals. You sit. Stand. Pace. Repeat. The small closet of a room consists of nothing but a worn sofa that’s seen better days and old propaganda posters on the walls.

Five days.

Five days of biting your fingernails. Five days of allowing anxiety to take root and bloom in your chest. Flowering. Wrapping around tendon, nerve, and bone until vines slip between the folds of your brain. Nesting. Curling.

A holding cell. A holding room. Not five days of it. Perhaps only fifteen or twenty minutes. Yet it feels eternal, as if you’ve been awaiting your fate for ages in this cage. A crazed animal ready to gnash its teeth at the first sight of juicy flesh.

Your gaze scans the posters. Posters from the war. Of staying vigilant. Of reporting suspicious behavior. It’s clear they don’t use this space for anything except to put someone they don’t know what to do with. And you have tried the door. Locked. Because they don’t want you to leave.

Not that you can flee.

The Safe Zone is a fortress.

After reading through the posters for a fourth fucking time, you seek the lone window, staring down at the street, believing that people-watching might better occupy your time until you’re fetched.

All this, and for what? There is no choice. Not a true one anyway. It’s merely two options. Two things to pick from. Neither of them are ones you’ve selected for yourself. And yet they wanted you to choose.

Make a choice.

This is freedom.

This is not freedom. It is not home or peace or anything. It is worse. Not hell, but a hole. Bottomless. But only because it’s dark and you cannot see. You’ll hit eventually. Buckling under the force. Bone crunched into pieces.

Though this is true, you still made a choice. A safe one. The familiar one with a person who frustrates you, who you sometimes hate, who you’ve feared, who you’ve allowed to taste the space between your legs.

You and Simon are to be reunited. Brought together not as minder and hostage but as husband and wife. A choice that wasn’t a choice at all. Accept him or be subjected to another. A stranger, maybe. Or Sergeant Fields if Commander Graves was telling the truth.

And if I say yes? Right now? What happens?

The answer: nothing. Commander Graves merely nodded. Shrugged. Sent you on your way as if you hadn’t completely altered the trajectory of your life. No paperwork. No “sign here and you might win an all-expenses paid vacation!”

Just a dismissal. And a promise that someone would come pick you up when Lieutenant Riley arrived.

Five days.

Five fucking days.

Five days of snotty crying before bed in the fetal position.

Five days of almost-panic attacks and locking yourself in the bathroom stall at work.

Five days of understanding the degradation. Of being reduced to nothing. Of being force in the name of public good.

Even now, pacing and standing and sitting in this goddamn room, you’re excited to see Simon again. Nervous too, but mostly eager. Other than Eloise, Hannah, and Arthur, Simon has been at your side. Looking after you. Taking care of you. Protecting you when he can. There were times when you didn’t want it, but he did it anyway.

Your captor, the man that was your enemy, is now your…husband.

Strange. You don’t feel any different. You only feel lost. Unsure of the future. All this time you’ve been trying to survive, to bring yourself closer to a possible escape and return home. But that idea is bleak. Stained red. Tarnished. There is little reason to believe you’ll ever see your community again. They are a past indulgence.

The cooling system kicks in again, and the first brush of air makes you shiver. It’s followed by a sharp knock knock knock. You quickly turn around, the door opening, only for your safety net to step through, shutting the door behind him.

“Simon,” you breathe.

His name is hardly out of your mouth before he’s on you, removing his balaclava, and grasping the back of your neck. Rough, calloused fingers lightly dig into your skin, forcing your neck to curve, exposing the front of your throat to Simon like you’re the submissive prey and he the unforgiving predator.

“Dove,” he answers. The pet name he loves to call you. A mere whisper on his lips before they come down on your own.

He smells of coming rain. Or damp earth. A hint of smoke. You surrender to him, hands gripping the front of his uniform, fisting the fabric, clinging to him as if he’ll become water vapor and dissolve into the air.

The kiss deepens, and you suddenly don’t care about anything else. There is strength and comfort in the way Simon kisses you. A possession that on any other man might scare you. But with him, you slip into it, allowing him to lead, to take as many liberties as he wants.

Simon’s hold tightens. He guides you around, shoving you against the wall, his knee slotting between your thighs, easing them apart. Lust traps you in it’s embrace, squeezing until your lungs beg for air, and the intimacy of this position brings anxiety thumping down on your head.

Like a sudden burst of cold water, you jerk back, your hands become hard fists. Pushing. Shoving.

“Simon,” you gasp, and there is no excitement in it.

Simon remains still, chest heaving, lips slightly red and puffy from his rough attention. “I missed you.” His admission flattens you. Chokes out your air and pulls out whatever you intended to say. Simon moves then, brushing your cheek with his gloved knuckles. “You wanted me.”

Not in the way you think, Simon.

“You didn’t tell me the truth.”

Broken. The moment is gone. As much as you enjoyed his kisses, you don’t choose him. Not really. But you don’t need to elaborate or berate. Simon’s gaze softens, and it’s almost sad.

“I told you what I could,” he murmurs.

No. No, it’s unacceptable.

“Omission is still a lie,” you insist.

Simon’s knee retreats, but he doesn’t back away. “I’ve told you, dove. I’m no liar.”

You grit your teeth. Swallow down a frustrated scream. “You only told me enough, Simon. Enough to…string me along. Made me think I had any say.”

His posture relaxes. The retreat is happening. The withdrawal. Simon straightens, keeping one hand firmly planted on the wall beside your head. “This is not the place to hash out what did or didn’t happen.”

You scoff. You slide to the side and then off the wall in an attempt to create distance but there is hardly anywhere to go. The room is fucking small and Simon is a large man.

“We have to go.”

“Go where?” you snap.

“Lieutenant Riley!” There’s a sharp knock at the door and a voice you don’t recognize. “You ready?”

Simon grimaces. “Give us a minute,” he barks.

With a heavy sigh, Simon returns the balaclava to his head, smoothing it out and tucking it under the neckline of his uniform. There are no civilian clothes in sight. He wears his standard-issue all-black uniform minus the tactical gear. While it’s clean, it’s rumpled, likely put on in a hurry. You don’t know what his time has been like at the other Safe Zone or what might have happened. At a brief onceover, you don’t notice anything different about him. A good thing even though you want to punch him in his stupid fucking face right now. Part of your cares. Annoyingly so.

“We have to go,” he repeats, this time in a gentler tone.

You want to ask your question again. To bite back. To protest. Throw your fists about and spit some poison. But what use is that? Will it get you anywhere? Will it make you safe? Will it help you survive? No. It fucking won’t. Yet it would make you feel better.

Licking your lips, you clasp your hands in front of you. It is only then that you realize your hands are shaking. You stare down at them. A tingle forms behind your eyes and your nose burns. You sniffle. Curse yourself for being vulnerable.

It’s a subtle, shaky ocean. Fractured. A sinking boat. You are slipping. An aura of dark blue that suddenly becomes bright and flaming as Simon takes your hands in his, brings them to his mouth, presses your joined hands together against his balaclava. You feel the shape of his lips through the fabric. His eyes are soft—nearly pleading.

You sniffle again. It’s thicker. And as the first tears roll downward, Simon is there to wipe them away.

“We have to go,” he says again.

And you muster up the fucking courage to walk.

With an arm draped over your shoulders, Simon tucks you into his body, keeping you close. You follow his lead, staying at his side as he opens the door, surprising the man on the other side. A stranger. Young. Hardly an adult by the lack of facial hair.

“Lieutenant Riley,” he says, voice cracking slightly.

“Take us to Graves,” growls Simon, hardly giving the boy a glance.

Numbness settles in. A cold buzzing. Each step is sludge and the only thing keeping you afloat is Simon’s gentle guidance, ushering you down the hallway and escorting you through Commander Graves’ door. When the two of you enter, Graves does not address you. He greets Simon, extends his hand in congratulations, asks that you sit. If it weren’t for Simon resting one hand on your knee, you’d think you were part of the decoration.

“I need you to sign here.”

“What?” you blurt, blinking rapidly, suddenly aware that Commander Graves and Simon are staring at you expectantly.

Graves rapidly taps the document in front of you on the desk three times. You wince, hating how he glares at you. “Sign here.”

Glancing at Simon, you find soft eyes and a gentle, silent pleading. Scooting forward in the chair, you lean toward the desk, slowly sweeping your gaze over the document. It’s a marriage license. Simon has already signed his name. Commander Graves’ signature and the United Nations seal is at the very bottom, beneath the Groom line where Simon has signed. Your portion is empty. Awaiting your autograph.

Graves places a black ball-point pen on top of the document. He raises his eyebrows like you’re taking too long at following directions. You don’t take up the pen in hesitant weakness. You snatch it up, aggressively clicking the end, pressing the tip so hard against the document as you sign your name that it drags across the paper, nearly tearing it. There is no passive doe inside you. This is malicious compliance.

Fuck this place. Fuck its rules.

“It’s signed,” you snarl, tossing the pen at Commander Graves and thumping back into your chair.

Simon’s tension is immediate. You don’t have to look at him to know. It oozes off of him, creeping toward you like thick oil. Commander Graves stares at you for a long moment, the middle of his brow pinching like he’s trying to sort you out.

“Are we free to go?” you ask cooly, cutting off whatever Graves’ was conjuring in his head.

He sniffs, displeasure clear in his features. He glances at Simon and nods. “Enjoy.”

Like you’re a fucking meal.

You bolt up from your chair, limbs buzzing with electric fury, seconds away from boiling over and becoming a tsunami. A subtle hand on your shoulder. A light tug. You know it’s Simon. The point of contact soothes the ache.

“Come on, dove,” he murmurs.

Forcing you to turn away, Simon urges you toward the door. You keep your gaze forward. Remote. Distant. All the tension in your body breaking the second the two of you step into the hall. The wave of relief is nearly suffocating. Drowning. You inhale, gasping, almost choking on the oxygen like it’s a foreign substance.

“I want to go home,” you say flatly.

“We have one more stop,” replies Simon.

No “you can’t go home.” Not a “this is your home.”

Nothing.

That’s how it used to be—when you begged. The fact that Simon doesn’t even acknowledge your old home, the community you miss so much, is harrowing. A finality in utter absence.

Your voice is a raspy whisper. “Where to?”

“To your least favorite person.”

“Joann?” you ask with a snort, because you fucking hate her.

Simon shakes his head and you frown up at him. “It’s a family planner.”

“Another?”

“Different,” corrects Simon. “You’re my wife now.”

You’re his wife. A partner. A spouse. But not an equal. Not in the eyes of the law.

“Why does that matter?”

Simon sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I’m responsible for you. And priorities change once you’re married.”

“’Priorities change,” you repeat, already understanding. “You mean babies.”

“That’s not—”

You hold up your hand. Demanding silence. “That’s not a topic I’m all that interested in discussing right now. With a complete fucking stranger.”

A door slams down the hall and Simon quickly glances over his shoulder. When no one appears, Simon returns his attention to you.

“I know this isn’t ideal—”

“Less than fucking ideal,” you growl.

“—but it’s worse if we put it off.”

You huff with indignation. “This shouldn’t even be happening.”

“But it is,” emphasizes Simon, stepping into your space, forcing you to look up at him or step away. “You don’t have to like it. But we’re going. Then we can go home.”

We. We.

Together.

It feels so final.

“Fine. Fucking fine.” You turn on your heel, taking a few steps down the hall before realizing you have no idea where you’re going.

“Dove,” chuckles Simon.

“Don’t fucking laugh,” you mutter, stepping aside for him to take the lead.

At least with this you have a break. Time to pause. The new family planner, Claire, is back in the civilian zone and in a completely different building than Joann’s office.

“Take a seat in one of these chairs here.” Claire gestures at the two chairs directly in front of her desk. They’re evenly spaced apart, angled inward to create a perfect v. “Can I get either of you something to drink?” Her black ponytail sways behind her.

“No. Thank you,” replies Simon cooly.

“A water would be lovely. Please,” you answer, throat a bit parched. It’ll also give you something to do. Something else to focus on.

“Course,” she says brightly, pouring crystal clear water into a glass from a pitcher.

Simon waits to sit until you’ve settled. Claire sets the glass down in front of you on a coaster. She eases it towards you before scooting forward in her own chair. Folding her hands together, she places them on the top of her desk.

“Now,” she beings, shoulders straightening as she prepares her spiel. “I want to start by reassuring you. Marriage is a big commitment. With it comes extra responsibilities. I’m here to help the two of you navigate it. Together.”

Claire is beaming. You and Simon remain silent.

She coughs. “We won’t cover everything today. That would be silly. I’ll simply be covering a few…important things of note. And then you’ll be free to enjoy your week-long sequester.”

“Excuse me,” you interject. “A what?”

Claire is still beaming, and even in that overtly fake joy, you notice the strain. “All newlyweds have a week-long sequester. But,” and she holds up her hands, “we will get to that.” Claire reaches for a large leather binder. It’s deep brown and slightly frayed at the edges but appears to be in good condition.

“With your marriage comes a few changes,” she says, opening the leather binder. She places the tips of her fingers on the first page, tapping to indicate the binder as a whole. “This is yours. And in it is all the information you will likely need in the coming days. Months. Years.”

Months. Years. The very idea turns your stomach sour.

“The two of you were on separate, single-person household provisioning. That will combine to a two-person household.” Claire flips a page. “That will be taken care of. No need to file any paperwork or go to this office or that to have it sorted. Although…” Claire taps her chins, scanning the rest of her desk. “There it is,” she breathes, opening up a manila folder you easily recognize.

“That’s my file,” you state.

“It is!” she says brightly. She flips through quickly, pausing and running a finger down a page. “Yes. Thought so. Okay.” Claire glances up, addressing you. “All your labs show healthy fertility. I’ll make a note to add prenatal vitamins to your household provisioning. It’s good to start taking those now.”

“We’re not—”

“There is also the issue of housing,” continues Claire, talking right over you. “I see one civilian property on your side.” She gestures to you. “And Lieutenant Riley it says here you have property in the military zone and the civilian zone.”

You turn in your chair, ready to launch a volley of questions at Simon. When you broke the vase over his head, Simon took you to his flat in the military zone. At no point did you think he’d also have a civilian residence.

Claire’s eyebrows rise toward her hairline. “Do we know where the two of you intend to stay?”

“We’ll need to discuss it,” answers Simon automatically. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Claire dismissively waves her hand. “Not a problem. It’s not really time-sensitive.” She sets your file to the side and returns to the leather binder. “There are emergency numbers, maps, things to do, date ideas, mental health information, and a load of other amazing things in this binder. Not homework, but I encourage the two of you to look it over. Together or separately.”

She scratches the side of her nose, flipping toward the back of the planner. “Now this is homework.” That giddy smile is back. You grab your water glass and bring it to your lap, rubbing your finger tip against the side to ground yourself. “The week-long sequester.”

Beside you, Simon adjusts in his seat. They’re more lounge chairs than office chairs. A ploy at comfort. For you, it feels rigid, but Simon appears relaxed, legs spreading slightly as he shows signs of clear interest.

“It’s the perfect time for the two of you to connect,” continues Claire. “The first pillar can seem rigid. And while everyone who can contribute is expected to do so, we understand that it’s a deeply personal and intimate process.”

Your tapping against the side of the water glass increases to a nervous swell.

“All of the doctors and scientists and people with fancy degrees on the United Nations advisory board for the first pillar agree that, when possible, conception should happen naturally. There are plenty of alternative options, but those that are medically cleared,” and she gestures to the two of you, “should rigorously attempt the natural route.”

You want to melt into the goddamn floor. Become a puddle. Find the microscopic cracks to slowly sink into. To disappear until you hit the ground floor with the exit door.

Claire, still with that giddy fucking smile, pats one of the pages she’s stopped on. “They also encourage not to force it. Don’t schedule. Don’t plan. Simply enjoy yourselves. Enjoy each other. Build a physical connection. Sometimes conception just takes time.” She giggles. Fucking giggles like this greatly amuses her. “For that reason, there is a section of different positions.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Does it?” asks Simon, voice husky with interest. He leans forward a bit in his chair. “Can we see?”

With great enthusiasm, Claire expands a fold out on the page in front of her. She holds it up, revealing a detailed diagram of how to perform a reverse cowgirl.

“And there’s an entire section on the best positions for pregnancy.” Claire returns the fold out to its place, flipping through a few more pages before gleefully showing off another detailed how-to. This one is a modified missionary position with the woman’s legs on the man’s shoulders as he penetrates for a deeper angle.

Simon shifts. A minor movement. Just a little pivot. Behind the balaclava, you know he’s grinning. Eating this up. You pointedly ignore him.

“The week-long sequester is a great time to try a few of these out,” comments Claire as she neatly refolds and tucks the paper back into its original state. “And from your medical file,” indicating you with a quick raise of a finger, “you should be ovulating during that time.”

“How lucky for us,” remarks Simon.

If Claire wasn’t in the room right now, you’d dump the entire glass of water on him.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Claire pops up from her chair, heading for the double-door closet behind her desk. She rummages around, returning with what appears to be a gift bag.

Placing it on top of the planner, she pats the side. “We give all newlyweds a gift bag to congratulate them on their marriage. But for the two of you, I managed to snag something few have managed to get.” With a flair, she opens the bag, reaching inside. “Something from before. A complete luxury now and rare since the battery-operated ones are useless. This one has a cord that you can plug into an outlet. Charge it that way. Much easier.”

From the bag she retrieves a small box. At first, you can’t figure out what it is. But as Claire shifts it around to show you, hot embarrassment floods your body.

She addresses Simon. “Sometimes men need a little help.”

Simon appears completely unfazed as he stares at the toy. A vibrator. Or one of those clit-suctioning devices. Mortification is hardly the right word. Combustion would be preferable.

“Are we done here?” you squeak, wincing at how your voice breaks with anxiety.

Claire laughs, returning the toy to the bag. “Yes. Yes. My goodness. The two of you should be enjoying yourselves. Not listening to me yap.”

Simon is reclining again, those dark eyes of his piercing right through you. You match his stare, putting all your annoyance into it. If Simon reacts behind the balaclava, you can’t tell.

The moment Claire closes the leather binder, you dart up from your seat, snatching it and the contraband goodie bag. “Thank you so much for your time,” you say far too quickly, knowing you likely look fucking frazzled and strung out.

Claire though, to her credit, remains professional. “Thank you so much for stopping by.”

She stands, stepping around her desk to escort the two of you to the door. You’re ahead of her, yanking her office door with enough force that is bounces hard against the doorstop. Simon chuckles behind you, and it only worsens the embarrassment.

“Don’t say a goddamn thing,” you growl once the two of you are alone. “Take me home.”

Simon inclines his head in agreement.

But he does not take you home. Not to your home anyway. Not to your little flat that overlooks the park and is only a couple blocks away from work.

Simon takes you to his home. The one in the civilian zone. It’s nearby. A few blocks over from your apartment. You stand just inside the kitchen, your back to the front door, the leather binder and gift bag mocking you on the kitchen island. Simon’s space is larger. The living room and kitchen are open, creating a sense of space. The floors are a deep brown wood. Walls exposed brick. An open archway leads into a short hallway. You glimpse the cracked bedroom door and not much else.

“Simon. Is this—”

As you turn to face him, you collide with a brick wall. Frozen and still, your brain stutters out, not entirely comprehending what you’re seeing.

Just a few feet away, Simon is undoing his belt, threading it out of the loops, balaclava off, revealing his face. It would be a lie to say he isn’t handsome. Not in the traditional sense. Not in that movie star quality. Simon has scars. Ruggedness. A dark depth to him that interests you.

But you’re not aroused now. Not when he’s looking on you with hunger. Removing his belt. Unzipping his black cargo pants. Exposing skin and his happy trail.

“What are you doing?” you blurt, sounding incredulous.

Simon pauses, all that sultry swagger evaporating. “Consummating our marriage?”

It’s a question. Why is it a fucking question?

“Simon. No. I—”

“I know I said I only want to come inside you,” he rasps, taking a step forward, some of that swagger returning. “But I can pull out. If that’s what you want. Could come in my hand.”

“Simon—”

“Or on your belly.”

As he reaches out to grab your hips, you stumble backward, nearly tripping on your own feet and landing on your ass. “No. No. Simon. I am not—this is—” You gasp. Choke. “This is too much.”

Simon arms drop to his sides. He becomes silent. Still. Assessing. Your chest is heaving, heart thundering in your chest.

“You look frightened,” he murmurs.

Fuck.

“No. Simon. I’m—I’m overwhelmed. I wasn’t expecting this.” You gesture at yourself and then him. Back again. “There wasn’t really a choice. And I—I picked.”

That stillness again.

“You picked me,” he states.

“Because I had to!” you exclaim. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

It’s the truth. But it’s a knife. You watch your words slice. Cut. Draw blood.

“Do you even like me?” asks Simon, and you know you’ve fucked up.

You shake your head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Simon takes a step back. Away from you.

“Simon. Please.”

But he’s not listening. He’s withdrawing. Backing away. Zipping up his pants and returning the belt to its rightful place. The balaclava comes next, and it’s like when you first saw him when he stepped through the door from his month-long absence.

“Simon,” you beg.

He holds up a hand. And it’s a final break. Your legs move but Simon is already gone, the door slamming shut in your face.

An hour passes.

Two. Then three.

Mid-morning becomes afternoon becomes evening becomes night. You pace. Worried. Not knowing if you should leave Simon’s apartment and go look for him, or remain here until he comes back.

You vouch for the couch. To sit. To stew. To hold a pillow to your chest and hold back all the fucking tears that want to fall.

It’s after midnight when the door opens. When Simon finally comes home. Your mouth opens, a million apologies on your tongue, but one look from Simon silences you.

“I understand if this isn’t what you want,” he begins. “But this is where we are. I told you when we first met that I could provide for you. Protect you. Keep you safe. I will do that. I will try to make you happy.”

“Simon—”

“Let me finish.”

You swallow, clutching the pillow tighter against your chest.

“I will be faithful to you. Loyal only to you. But I need something in return.”

Simon lowers himself down to one knee before you, and there is fiery desperation in his eyes.

“I need you to try.”