Page 7 of Shadow (Marinah and the Apocalypse #1)

Marinah

I was alive.

Pissed off, but alive.

My head throbbed, my muscles ached, and I was starving. Add exhaustion to the list, along with the fact that I looked like absolute hell, and I wanted to curl up in a hole somewhere.

In the mirror, my tangled hair fanned out like Medusa’s snakes, frizzing around my face in a way that screamed neglect. What should have been the whites of my eyes were more red than white, and my skin, thanks to the sweltering heat and lack of water, had turned a blotchy orange that resembled a bad spray tan.

I turned on the shower, the sound of rushing water promising a small reprieve. Tearing off my soaked clothes, I tossed them onto the floor with a satisfying slap.

For good measure, I stomped on them. Hard.

It did nothing for my mood or my pounding headache. Each stomp sent a sharp throb through my skull, and I finally gave up. Anger bubbled in my chest, but the sheer exhaustion of the day dulled it into a simmer.

Stepping under the cool spray, I let the water run over me, rubbing my arm where the IV needle had been. At least I didn’t remember the needle. I despised them as much as everything else about today.

The water helped, but it didn’t wash away the irritation. My mind ran through a list of things I hated, and King’s name popped up like an unwanted refrain.

I hated roaches—and King.

I hated military rations—and King.

I hated my period—and King.

The man was insufferable, commanding, and completely inhuman. Yet, here I was, under his roof, at his mercy. The thought only stoked my anger.

I scrubbed harder, trying to erase the day’s events from my skin. It didn’t work, but for now, the water began to dull the edges of my frustration.

A whoosh of cool air invaded the bathroom, a sharp contrast to the steamy shower.

I didn’t need to look out from behind the curtain to know who was responsible.

It was him.

The devil himself.

King.

His presence was like an internal rash I couldn’t scratch, prickling under my skin.

I listened as he moved around the room, placing something on the counter. The door closed with a soft thud, and the air settled again.

Peeking out, I spotted a bottle of water on the counter. Without hesitation, I unscrewed the cap and downed it in one go.

The pressure in my bladder reminded me I wasn’t dying after all. Small victories.

The thought crossed my mind to pee in King’s shower, just to make a point.

If I had a spray bottle, I’d have filled it with my urine and misted his entire bathroom with disdain.

The man was an arrogant prick, and I wasn’t above petty revenge.

I shook off the impulse and grabbed the pleasant-smelling bar of soap, scrubbing my skin and hair as I continued my running list of reasons to hate King.

By the time my skin wrinkled, my mood had lifted a fraction. Not enough to forgive the hotbox ordeal, but enough to keep me from plotting actual crimes.

I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around myself, and let my mind wander.

What had I expected when I arrived here?

Campfires and makeshift tents?

Steel underground bunkers like those back in the U.S.?

So far, the citadel and surrounding areas were surprisingly intact.

From what I’d seen, Cuba had fared better than anyone could have imagined.

I replayed what little I had witnessed on the drive here.

There had been damage, sure, but it didn’t compare to the devastation we had endured back home.

Europe’s ruins were even worse, driving survivors to risk crossing the Atlantic.

Japan and Australia? Gone, or so we suspected.

And Cuba?

Written off years ago.

Yet here I was, standing in a functioning bathroom, contemplating the resilience of this island.

Had King and his warriors known what they were getting when they took the treaty?

Or was this a calculated stroke of luck?

Endless questions swirled in my mind, but I forced myself to let them go.

For now, survival took precedence.

I would have plenty of time to analyze later. If I lived long enough.

After taking care of my bladder, I turned my attention to the neatly folded clothes on the counter.

The soft beige cotton pants would show dirt the instant I tripped, because I would trip.

The matching bra and panties, also beige, seemed plain but functional.

Slipping them on, I realized everything fit perfectly, which felt unsettling.

Had King guessed, or had someone measured me while I was unconscious?

I shook off the thought and pulled on the light blue T-shirt.

It was simple and clean, a welcome change from the sweat-soaked outfit I had arrived in.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and groaned.

There was no comb or brush, so I tackled my hair with my fingers, only managing to tame it into a barely passable state.

My gaze drifted to the empty countertop.

No toothbrush.

I sighed, silently adding it to the list of things I would need to ask for if I survived King’s hospitality long enough.

Spotting the water bottle, I filled it from the tap but hesitated.

Drinking unfiltered water was a rookie mistake.

I couldn’t believe I had forgotten so quickly.

Years of conditioning should have made this second nature.

Grimacing, I poured the water into the sink, watching it swirl away as I mentally scolded myself for the slip.

With a deep breath, I slipped on the black flip-flops left on the floor.

They were a little loose but a massive upgrade from the heels I had worn when I arrived.

The cool metal of the doorknob turned, and I stepped out.

The bedroom, dimly lit by a single lamp, was spacious and minimalist.

Colorful area rugs broke up the expanse of Spanish-tiled flooring.

A simple white bedspread covered the four-poster bed, and tied mosquito netting gave the space an unexpectedly soft touch.

My eyes adjusted to the shadows, and I froze when I spotted King sitting at a small table in the corner. His gaze was piercing, like he was dissecting me from afar. Goosebumps rippled across my skin despite the lingering heat.

“Can you see, or should I turn up the lights?” His deep voice broke the silence, making me jump even though I had known he was there.

I took a few tentative steps forward, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Um, I think I’m good,” I replied, my voice wavering more than I liked.

He stood and approached me with an easy, fluid motion. “Let me help you. I’m sure you’re hungry, and I’ve been waiting for you.” He extended his hand, palm up.

I hesitated, staring at it. Touching him felt like crossing some invisible line. The president’s orders ran through my mind, but for once, I couldn’t care less.

King didn’t flinch or lower his hand. He was perfectly composed, as though my indecision didn’t faze him. Oh hell, I thought, and reluctantly placed my hand in his. His fingers wrapped around mine, warm and firm, and he gently pulled me closer, guiding me to the table.

He was so large that his hand completely dwarfed mine. His towering height felt almost oppressive. Even his sheer body mass made the room feel smaller, more enclosed. I wasn’t sure if I found it unsettling or oddly grounding. Meanwhile, I had never felt more awkward in my own skin, and that was saying something, while King seemed utterly at ease in his.

“Sit here, and I’ll serve,” he said, pulling out a chair for me.

The moment he released my hand, I sat abruptly, my legs giving way beneath me. The chair was simple, wooden, and surprisingly comfortable. Two place settings and several covered dishes sat in the center of the table. King removed one of the metal covers, and the aroma that wafted up made my stomach growl loudly in protest.

No, incredible didn’t begin to describe it.

My mouth watered as I watched him lift a warm tortilla from a second dish and place it on my plate. He piled it high with incredible-looking chunks of what appeared to be grilled meat, caramelized onions, and vibrant red peppers.

Actual meat.

I had never asked what was in the Federation gruel we were forced to eat if we wanted to live. I had heard others mention ground dog. Any meat made me feel mentally sick, but I wanted to live, and to do that, I had to give up my vegetarian ways and never ask.

Without a word, King took his seat and watched me as I shamelessly broke all dining etiquette. I picked up the tortilla with both hands and took a bite. The flavor exploded on my tongue. My eyes fluttered shut as I savored every bit. Instant. Taste bud. Orgasm.

When I opened my eyes, I caught King watching me with an amused quirk tugging at the corner of his lips. I should have felt self-conscious, but all I could do was grin back.

“The vegetables are fresh, and this is real meat,” I said after swallowing.

“Yes,” he replied simply.

“Did I die today?”

King threw his head back, releasing a full-throated laugh that reverberated through the room. The sound softened the hard lines of his face, making him seem almost handsome. A surprising tingle ignited low in my belly, and I mentally slammed the brakes. No. Absolutely not. Cut that out, right now.

I forced a stilted smile, lifting the tortilla to my mouth for another bite, letting the delicious taste soothe my nerves. Happiness had been a rare commodity in my life since my father’s death. Every day since had been shadowed by fear and worry, a constant reminder that my time with the Federation as a dispensable worker was running out. When this mission was offered, it had felt like a chance to die doing something meaningful.

King’s smile lingered as he made two fajitas for himself, his movements surprisingly casual for someone so imposing. “I remember the rations your government supplied during the war,” he said between bites. “They were atrocious. I hoped things had improved.”

Talking about our food supply felt taboo, but my orders hadn’t been exactly detailed beyond apologizing and pleading for diplomacy. I took a sip from the crystal glass in front of me, savoring the clean water before responding. “Nothing’s changed. We still eat the horrible gruel they give us. Most of the food we manage to grow is dried, packaged, and added to food storage. A trivial amount goes into the gruel. I haven’t seen a fresh vegetable in years.”

“Shadow Warriors need large amounts of calories,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We burn through them at a high rate, and it helps when the food is healthy.”

I finished my first fajita, and before I could reach for another, King made one for me and placed it on my plate. I blinked, momentarily thrown by him doing this unexpected gesture again . Shadow Warriors had always seemed like the epitome of alpha dominance, part man, part Neanderthal. The idea of one serving me was disconcerting.

“Thank you,” I said, genuinely meaning it.

He only nodded as I lifted the next fajita to my mouth. For a while, neither of us spoke, both focused on eating. The room fell into an almost comfortable silence, broken only by the clink of silverware when another fajita was made.

I finished three and lost count of how many King put away. There was one more dish on the table. King moved our plates aside and lifted the lid. I almost fell from the chair.

Half an apple pie rested on the plate.

I salivated.

King cut the available pie in half and lifted the largest piece to a small, unused plate.

“I can’t possibly eat all that,” I said in desperation when he pushed it my way.

“Eat what you like. I’ll finish what’s left.”

He placed the other piece on his plate. I was almost afraid to taste it. Being here, in this room, reminded me of the time before the war. It was surreal. I wanted that time back, to wash my memory clean of death.

I wanted my long-ago friends back in my life, and most of all, I wanted my father.

A flickered image entered my head. It was my mother. I slammed it shut. Losing Dad had been hard but knowing that my mother’s life was given to save mine gutted me.

I snapped the thought closed and went back to eating ecstasy.

King took a bite of his pie, and I lifted the fork to my lips. The warm cinnamon apples and crust slid down my throat, and a small moan escaped me. He smiled, and I was struck again by how it changed his face from scary to almost handsome again.

I concentrated on my pie and ate the entire piece. If King had tried to take it, I would have stabbed him with my fork.

So delicious.

The best thing I had eaten in years and no comparison to the occasional stale packaged snacks my father had brought home. Thank God the pants I was wearing stretched and had a tie I could adjust. I was stuffed and content.

At the feel of King’s heavy gaze, I glanced slowly upward.

His smile from a few minutes before was gone. The stark lines of his face were more prominent, making him appear almost angry. My fingers trembled when I nervously reached for my water glass.

He moved so quickly that I couldn’t pull away. His large hand wrapped around my wrist before I could touch the glass. I glanced from his hand to his eyes, and if I hadn’t been sitting, I would have stepped back from his fierce expression.

He looked ready to kill.