Page 166 of Cold-Blooded Creatures

“That’s not an explanation.” Kali ripped off Zion’s white t-shirt drenched in cold sweat and shivered. “And I’m not a child. Your help is unnecessary.”

“I will agree to disagree.” I inspected the shallow cuts he had carved under her breast for signs of infection. I was not taking chances. “And I care about you. So whether you want it or not, I am helping.”

“Asshole.”

“That I am. An asshole who will not let you go.”

After getting her into my t-shirt, the sweatpants she had discarded tossed on the floor, I positioned myself behind her, leaning against the headboard with her between my legs, and handed her the book she had produced from somewhere.

At least she was angry. Not simply going through the motions. Fighting was her method of self-defense, self-preservation, and the pressure eased in my chest at seeing it kick into action.

But a thin line, a barrier, stood between fighting for survival and fighting yourself, living to see another day and erasing it from your future. Because a fight was a whirlpool of emotions and logic, a vortex spinning you in circles, tugging you into its depths, scrambling your mind, numbing your senses, snatching the path from under your feet. You could easily lose yourself in it, and wake up one day without knowledge of why you had started the fight, without direction to seek, without motivation to go on, without the will to live.

There were days when the reason for my own battles evaded my comprehension, and I feared the same for Kali. Healing could so easily become misdirected and lead to self-destruction.

The book forgotten in her lap, she stared out the window. Flat concrete and brick-red tiled roofs floated under the dusk-colored clouds, the sky seemingly on fire, its flames licking the peaks of the mountains looming a day’s drive from our compound.

I lifted the printed copy that had endured the test of time, the corners of the back peeling, the cover ten times darker shade of cream than it was the day of its manufacturing, and wondered what had inspired the author to write the story.

Glue residue marred the broken binding, and part of the yellowed pages was missing, the rest loose or in bundles barely contained by fraying threads. Careful not to launch a rain of them, I flipped the book over to see the title pressed into the cover. Years had obscured half of the letters, but the familiar lines told me the rest:The Three Realms.

A collection of tales about the gods ruling the skies, seas, and lands. Both good and evil, and simultaneously neither. A book my father would read to me before tucking me into the bed and switching off the lights.

Amari must have wandered into my study and brought it for Kali to read. The book had been collecting dust on the top shelf,the third tome from the left, between the others I had not dared to touch since I had taken over my parents’ positions.

Finally, she asked, “Why did you hit a wall?”

I returned the book to her lap and gently splayed out my left hand on her belly in a possessive manner. She was mine. I was not giving her up to the messenger, his memory be damned. Whatever it took to bring her back to the surface, I was doing it. “Because you are not eating.”

She took my right hand, inspected the split knuckle, and used the hem of her t-shirt to clean the crusting blood. When the wound didn’t restart bleeding, she mapped out the lines indented in my palm, her promise a barely audible whisper. “I’ll eat something tomorrow.”

Minutes ticked by, and she relaxed in my arms, seduced by sleep that soon pulled me under too.

Startling awake, I found Zion curling up beside us, the room drowning in darkness. Unmoving, I listened to their inhales and exhales while calculating the risks and odds of us going to war, pacifying the ire boiling in my bones, and squelching the need to bend him over and fuck him senseless.

53

ZION

Dangling my legs off the edge of Gedeon’s desk in his study, I fiddled with the handle of my knife, the blade sparkling in the dimness. The room had been split into two zones: the gray suede couch and the small table in front of it claimed by the night’s darkness and the ebony desk with two seats before it won by the glow cast by the table light.

A truce, of sorts.

“Get off my desk,” Gedeon barked as he entered and closed the door. He stopped five feet away and glared at my knife embedded in the wooden surface. “Fucking get it off.”

I leaped off the desk. “Are you asking me to get you off?”

He hadn’t said anything in the three days that had gone by since I’d gotten him off in the shooting range, but I clearly had burrowed under his skin.

Hilarious, honestly.

“I don’t ask. I give permission.” Giving me a knowing look, he sat behind the black desk.

Mhm, that commanding tone of his.

He ran a hand through his dark strands, so shiny in the faint illumination. “What’s our status?”

“The resource supply chains have been restored. Ezra and Eli are drafting up new ways to exploit the city as much as we can.” I plopped down in a chair across from Gedeon and scratched my chin. “We should get through this winter without rationing our food, but we’re exploring options to stack up on the nutritional bars Ilasall manufactures. Can’t say how it’ll go right now. Ezra should give me an update in a few days. The newcomers from the auction have calmed down, except two still trying to escape. My guess is they should begin to adjust to their new lives in a week or so. The rest have started taking classes at schools and are taken on tours around the compound. As usual, a couple had freaked out at people having sex out in the open.” I spread my legs and hooked an elbow over the chair’s backrest. “Maybe we should give them a show. To help them get accustomed.”