Page 18

Rules

Rumi

After Weston took the apples and the colorfully wrapped treat, his bushy brows lowered over his blue eyes as he held the fruit up to the light.

It looked delicious, all red and shiny with freckles of gold.

Truthfully, she had forgotten about the apples in her pocket during her escape.

She had forgotten a lot of things.

Maybe Sullivan had ruined her mind while she was his captive.

Weston slipped all three into his large pockets and his attention turned back to her, his lips pursed as he rubbed his chin.

“In gratitude,”

Rumi said, dipping her chin in respect.

This was their leader, but not their aba.

Even so, it was always proper to give gifts to the leader who hosted foreigners.

The foolish colonel had nearly ruined things, but at least he knew some decency, as he gave the gifts to their proper recipient.

Weston straightened, studying her like she had said some foreign words.

“Fyn, take yer friend and grab the boys from the coop for me, will ya? I’ll be right back, miss, you stay there,”

he said to Rumi.

Without another word, he turned, hooked two other men around the elbows and led them into another room.

Two more of the men exited through the front.

She could still see past the door Weston had shut part-way, but they lowered their voices just enough that she could not hear what they were saying.

She was alone.

That would not do at all.

Rumi tiptoed across the dusty floor, slashes of light and shadow marking her way.

“Didn’t ya see the jacket? She prolly stole it from a poster,”

a voice proffered.

“Gavin’s right.

Likely the other posters’ll be after her if she escaped from that new outpost,”

said another.

Rumi held her breath, listening and trying to discern the intention from a few sentences.

Would they send her back? Her breathing shallowed and her heart galloped in her chest at the thought.

“We could hide her.

Lay low till it all dies down.”

That was Weston.

At least he was on her side.

“Your house is the closest thing to that outpost.

Ain’t no way they’d believe ya if you kept her here and didn’t tell ‘em.

Then you’d be putting everything in danger.

We don’t need no posters sniffing around and finding what’s ours.”

The voice of the man they called Gavin argued.

“Ain’t no one gon’ find our oritium.

I hid it.”

Weston said.

But the other man continued on.

“I still say we give her back.

Maybe they’ve got a reward.

You seen them markings on her face.

I bet she’s extra special and they’d pay well to have her again.”

To Behiba’s grave with that idea.

Rumi was done leaving her fate in other people’s hands.

She crept away from the door and looked around.

She needed to get away.

Somehow.

Already weak and exhausted beyond measure, she knew she would not get far, but if she could find a tree or something…she could perhaps survive.

There was very little in the room by way of tools.

The mug could be useful, though.

Silently as possible, she grabbed it and stealthily made her way toward the front door.

Already the heat was beating in through the glowing cracks.

After a slight hesitation, she reached for the doorknob.

It turned in her grasp and yanked her forward. Stumbling over the huge boots, she yelped as she fell right into a rock. Not a rock. Someone’s chest.

Rumi did not think, she acted.

With what little strength remained, she smashed the mug into his head and scrambled out the door, intent on freedom.

Sunlight warmed her fingertips and then was gone.

A stone-like arm wrapped around her middle and lifted her off her feet.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The deep voice resonated through her bones.

She knew that voice.

He deposited her back on the chair inside, rubbing his head where she had hit him, and glared at her.

“Sun will kill you faster than anyone here.

Tempting as it may be.”

“You.”

The singular word was a viper, spoken with enough hatred that she was sure he flinched.

“Yeah, me.”

His impervious reply, so similar to how Sullivan had addressed her, made her neck prickle with sweat.

He looked different than she remembered.

Rougher.

But now that he had removed those strange shields from his eyes, she recognized him and admonished herself for not noticing sooner.

“I see you’ve introduced yourself to Cal,”

Weston said, returning to the room and breaking the tension of their stares, though he seemed utterly oblivious to the loathing that must have been so plainly etched in her features.

There was no way he missed the shards of the mug he crushed with his boots, but he did not remark on it.

Weston’s men trailed in behind him, throwing her wary looks between knowing glances at one another.

They kept quiet though.

“Melba’s gon’ get you some clothes to wear and a comb to fix that tangled nest you’ve got there,”

Weston continued.

“Can’t let a lady run ‘round lookin’ like that.

Do you prefer a dress or trousers?”

It took a minute for Rumi to realize he was addressing her.

A dress or trousers? Well, if she was to successfully escape, she would need trousers.

A small pang of sadness turned the corners of her lips down as she glanced at the dirty, barely recognizable remains of her own dress beneath the military coat.

“Trousers, please,”

she rasped.

The colonel was still staring holes in her skull and it took every ounce of her to not stare right back.

No, she told herself—she was better than that, and she needed to convince Weston that it was good to support her.

“Very well.

Cal, stay with our guest here.”

Weston gave the colonel a pointed look and left the room with the rest of his men following closely.

Rumi objected, but only in her mind, a silent and futile protest utterly unnoticed by anyone save maybe the colonel himself.

Rumi moved to stand, to follow the men who seemed more friendly than the stupid colonel, but that damned arm of iron slammed back around her middle and plopped her right back down in the rocking chair.

The chair pitched backward with her weight and she leaned forward, her nose nearly brushing his shirt, planting her two feet firmly on the floor to keep from rocking back and forth.

She watched him closely.

The empty plate on the floor by the chair clinked softly when her bare foot brushed it as she hugged her knees into her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

Waiting.

Observing.

Never taking her eyes off of him.

She was tempted to chuck the plate at him, too.

“Who did you steal the coat from?”

he asked, stepping back and leaning his broad shoulders against the door frame and crossing his arms.

“I did not steal it.”

She pinned him with a stern look.

He scoffed.

“You mean to tell me someone just gave you their military coat?”

He raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with derision.

“A likely story.”

“Yes.

That is what happened.”

The colonel’s jaw flexed, cutting off a frustrated sound when Weston entered once more with some clothing in his arms.

“Here ya go.

See if some of ‘em fit.”

“Wes!”

Someone called from outside and he lifted his head, muttering, “someone new comes along and everyone loses their heads…”

He raised his voice, “Comin’!”

“Here,”

Weston said, handing the clothes to the colonel.

“Make sure she gets dressed all right.

An’ no funny business, Cal.

Little Miss is our guest.”

Weston left again, leaving the colonel grimacing in his wake.

The colonel held up a pair of trousers, looked at her, and rolled his eyes.

Holding the waistband in one hand, eyeing her curled position and visually aligning the length with her waist, he folded the knees over his other arm to mirror her posture.

“They should fit.

You aren’t making this easy, Twiggy Girl.”

He eyed the uniform.

“Might be able to weave you a pair a shoes from the coat.

It’s dense enough.

Otherwise, your feet will fry on the noon sand and you can’t be going around in boots ten times your size, which is all we’ve got around here.

I’ll be outside,”

he announced, his steps light as he headed to the door, dropped the tinted lenses over his eyes, and replaced his mouth and nose cover before he stepped outside.

Rumi unfolded herself from the chair and lightly padded toward the deposited clothes.

They smelled strange, like sand and heat and something else.

Something distinctly manly.

She likely would not not get far tripping over this uniform anyway.

Biting her lip, Rumi quickly unbuttoned the jacket and folded it beside the shirt.

Her own tattered and dirty clothes stuck to her skin, the light linens woven from the long stalks of the grasses growing just past her tree hut.

With a sigh, she stripped to the nude, her scarred flesh rippling with goosebumps.

Alone again, she could try to escape.

She quickly dismissed the thought.

Just dress and be done and rest.

Then escape.

She was in no condition to trek back home…wherever home was from here.

The pants fit loosely, obviously made for someone much bigger than her.

She tugged them up, nearly toppling as she brought them to her waist.

She clicked her tongue with dismay.

Much of her strength had left her while she had been imprisoned.

She would not survive if she left now.

The thought sobered her. Shaking her head, she grabbed the shirt from the pile on the floor. It felt soft in her fingers, the colorful fabric immediately bringing an image of the mawjee bird and its bright pink and green plumage. She tugged it on over her head and smoothed it down over her front. Also a little big, but better than the uniform and her tattered, filthy garments. It also smelled much better, which brought another thought to the surface. She would do much, very much, for a bath.

With another sigh, she gathered the uniform in her arms and hesitantly went back outside to find the colonel.

The light was blinding as she pushed the door open, and she instinctively ducked back inside with a hiss.

How strange that in such a small span of time the sun could grow so hot.

The colonel stepped onto the threshold, casting his shadow over her.

He held the door open with his hip, his now gloved hand on the doorframe.

His free hand flicked toward the enclosed space.

He had put on some outer attire, though she recognized him immediately this time.

No skin was visible, just the pale and dusty fabric wrapped over and around nearly every part of him.

He looked terrifying.

As she gaped, he thrust his chin impatiently.

Rumi stumbled backward quickly on legs stiff with anxious energy, her heart bruising her chest with each panicked throb.

Her back and shoulders slammed into the far wall, catching her fall as she tried to blink away the sun-soaked blindness.

Aba used to tell her of the wild animals that could pick up the scent of fear from miles away and would hunt on that scent alone.

You must not be afraid, Rumina.

Never be afraid.

Rumi swallowed hard and slid up the wall, her trembling fingers hidden behind her back to support her.

If only this wall was made of wood, so she could at least have a weapon.

She lifted her chin in defiance, daring this man in a monster suit to attack her.

Weak as she may be, she would not let him see it.

He slipped in the door and pulled down the cloth over his mouth and nose, then lifted the eye shields over his cowl and fixed her with a green-eyed glance.

“All right, Twiggy.

Couple rules you should know.”

He began counting them on his fingers.

“When the sun’s up, cover up or stay inside.

It ain’t healthy for you out there in the state you’re in.

Two, don’t go anywhere alone.

For one, you don’t know shit about the desert, so it’s not safe.

Second, you’re still a fugitive of the government and even though I’m on leave, it’s my duty to get you back to where you need to be when you’re well enough to travel. I’ll be watching you.”

His look was hard.

“Two rules, Twiggy.

Got that?”

He could take his rules and shove them straight up his bottom.

She prayed that Morthis would burn out his eyeballs with godly fire.