Page 34

Eden

If you can trust someone with your peace,

you can trust them with your life.

Calm takes me.

I putter easily through the kitchen, fetching a mug while the pot simmers, the ingredients now packed away.

The supply list sits on the counter, my scribbled recipes for stretching rations detailed in the margins.

We’re almost out of most staples, and the meager plot of potatoes we planted before I left still have months before they’re ready.

I need to go foraging soon. What I collected on the route home will barely touch the sides.

Only, I’m not sure any amount of foraging is going to cut it.

We might have time before Alastair comes knocking or Red Zone needs our help, but we’re starving now. We need to solve that problem first, or we’ll die before either of those two problems arise.

I just don’t know what the solution is. If we start eating the chickens and goats, then we lose eggs and milk, which are the only things sustaining us right now.

Jaykob has already been sending the civilians out to nearby towns in search of food, but the Sinners have hollowed out every town they’ve approached.

Maybe we can go out farther? Push harder? But even then, it would be weeks before anyone could return.

Which leaves the Reapers.

Even if we did trust the Reapers enough to leave Bristlebrook and put ourselves at their mercy, they would want us to help defend them against the Sinners.

Which is just wonderful.

We can save ourselves from starvation only to be murdered by Alastair for treason shortly after.

Sourly, I stir my pot.

Should we just contact him? The idea of begging Alastair for help after everything grates, but if he truly wants to lord over us, then maybe he’ll give up some of their food until we can plant enough to get on our feet.

Some of the Reapers’ food, I remind myself guiltily.

But Alastair’s voice rings in my ears. “Of course the women and children stay here. She’s going to ask for our food and medicine again next, I imagine. It must be hard to see, watching your betters have everything.”

I don’t think Alastair plans on giving at all.

He got what he wanted from me . . . and Alastair has only made promises to take.

I sigh. I don’t know what the answer is, but I feel better having something cooking. It eases something inside me—some long-standing anxiety that there won’t be a next meal.

It feels like taking charge, even if only in a small way.

My empty stomach cramps hungrily, and I eye my pot.

It’s a congealed, fatty shade of brown, with a thin sheen of oil on the top.

My Save-Your-Life Slop recipe, coming right in time.

And okay, no, maybe it doesn’t look appetizing—and it smells.

.. interesting —but that rusty color is perfect. The preserved fat is life .

I smile proudly at it.

Dawn isn’t yet breaching the treetops, and the house is still snuggled asleep.

For the first time in too many days, quiet sinks into my bones.

No one is hawking over my every move. There are no thick, expectant silences as they wait for me to eat, no tension sharp enough to snap bones, no being torn in five different directions.

My body is deeply rested, the overlarge T-shirt I shouldn’t have stolen wraps me like a hug, and I can finally enjoy a moment alone.

Through the cracked, poorly glued windows, the forest is a blanket of green.

Ida and Ethel are keeping watch on one of the towering defensive platforms—their occasional lazy movements and the soft sway of the trees break the stillness.

Even the babbling pot’s low chatter feels familiar and comforting, reminding me of pebbled brooks and the dappled waterfall that used to run near my cave.

The deep quiet feels like an old friend. One I grew to loathe during my long solitude.

For years, I woke up to chilly cave walls and deafening silence. I used to crave the company of morning bird trills and the fat bellows of bullfrogs. I used to sit with my feet in the rippling water, just to feel like I was part of its noise.

Because silence like that can be suffocating.

I found an abandoned toy bear on the side of the road once, and there were days when I used to press its heart-shaped stomach over and over, just to hear an unnaturally cheery woman sing to me. Day after day, she kept me company.

Right up until her voice began to stutter and melt.

Until even she fell quiet.

Now, this silence is as strange to me as sound used to be.

I flick the burner off when the liquid starts to churn up thick, bubbling clots.

Lately, my life is fierce and loud and messy.

Painful and wonderful, vivid and awake, and I love it, for the most part.

But for all that my old life was painfully lonely, it was also.

.. serene. I miss having time to think.

Maybe now, here in this quiet, I can finish plotting out more recipes. Or work out how I’m going to convince everyone to start playing nice with one another.

I tuck my makeshift supply list into the front pocket of my shirt and scoop out a heavy ladleful of slop. Breathing in the fragrant cloud, I steady myself in the silence.

Maybe I’ll do all that.

Or maybe I’ll just watch the sunrise and let myself enjoy the moment.

Slowly, the tension bleeds out of me. I don’t need to be afraid of the quiet anymore. It’s only a brief respite from the noise.

When I finally open my eyes, Dom is leaning against the wall, watching me. His dark hair is still damp from a shower, and red shirt clings to his chest. He’s... so unbelievably beautiful.

I have no idea how long we’ve both been standing here, but I don’t feel the urge to move. His presence curls around me—the stillness not exactly restful, but strangely intimate.

It’s the longest we’ve been alone together since Cyanide.

I offer him a tentative, welcoming smile, and the gold in his eyes warms before he murmurs, “Good morning, pet.”

His voice is low—adding to the quiet, rather than stealing it away.

Pet.

“Eden,” he corrects, so softly. “I mean... good morning, Eden .”

My chest fills with sweet, gentle pressure, and I look down, swallowing delicately. I didn’t think I’d ever hear that word out of him again. Not for me.

I’m not sure it could hurt more, that it’s only by accident.

But still, he’s here... and I don’t want him to go.

Reaching down to the cupboard, I pull out another mug, then ladle him a cup too.

His eyes flick to my hands, but he doesn’t move any closer. He doesn’t leave, either. After a moment, his eyes fix on my face, and it takes every effort not to fumble under his intense attention.

And it . . . confuses me.

What does he want from me? He walked away from Jayk’s challenge last night. From me . I’m not sure he could have been much clearer.

I sneak another look at him—only for his eyes to pierce me through. For just one second, I could swear I glimpse a sharp, golden... wistfulness .

Then he looks outside, his throat working, and my heart squeezes.

Maybe it isn’t so clear.

His words from yesterday ring in my ears: Cyanide was my op. Everything that happened—everything—can be traced back to my mistakes. Mine alone.

He doesn’t blame me for Cyanide. He blames himself. I don’t know where that leaves us, or if he still feels anything like what I still feel for him. But whether he does or he doesn’t, I can’t let this go on.

We need to talk.

Flushing, torn, I stare down at the slop, and a small bubble bursts over the surface. He must be starving. Debating with myself for a pulse-pounding moment, I eventually pick up both mugs and walk over to him, frissons of tingling energy licking down my spine as we get closer and closer.

When I reach him, his scent envelops me—a spicy, sippable scent that sits on the back of my tongue.

Strangely nervous, I try to breathe it out.

After a long, confusing moment, Dom takes the mug from my hand. His fingers brush mine, and those pinpricks of energy intensify, prickling all over my skin.

He shocks my system awake.

It reminds me of every coffee date we had while I was learning to spar.

Of every time he battled with me for hours over what to do about raiding parties, or about which section of the defenses needed to be built first. Of his dry humor, and the way he’d sometimes stare at my mouth for just a little too long.

The silence becomes confusing, warmed in the tiny valley between us, and I look up.

Tender, liquid gold runs over me.

Slowly, Dom takes a sip from the mug, the usual hard line of his mouth soft and full. Something flickers over his expression, his lips tightening as he glances down at the cup—in gratitude, maybe? His eyes lift to track over my face, and he pushes off the wall with a nod of thanks.

And he walks out of the kitchen.

Disappointment cuts into me, bladed and miserable.

Idiot. Silly, blushing idiot. Say something, you ? —

“You coming?” Dom calls.

At the quiet offer, relief thrills through me, and I rush to follow him out onto the deck.

We’re going to talk.