Page 11 of Skyn (After the End #3)

Clean-Cut

I step out of the bath on legs that feel scandalously soft. The bots have gone too far this time. I didn’t know what to expect, but a bath—an actual bath—was not on my bingo card for the day.

Back home, water is a resource you reuse: wash, rinse, siphon it back into the filtration system, then pass it on to the next unlucky bastard in line. But this? This is excess in a way that almost feels illegal.

The mannies poured something into the water—oils?

salts?—and my skin is so slick, I’m convinced I could slip clean out of my clothes like a greased eel.

Two of them washed me with aggressive efficiency.

And Hank guarded the door. When I turned to look at him, he tried to smile, but it was too wide, like he’d just remembered that teeth existed and wanted to show them all at once.

Every inch of me feels too good, too smooth, like I’ve been marinated for my husband’s consumption, which, honestly, might not be far off.

I clutch the towel around me and step into the bedroom.

Ben is lying in bed like some kind of trap, his massive frame stretched across the sheets, dark skin gleaming in the dim light. He’s propped up on his elbows, watching me, his expression unreadable.

And I am doing actual math.

A man that size, that broad, with shoulders that look engineered for holding on to, with arms that could hoist me up like I weigh nothing—what would it feel like to straddle him?

Not just a hypothetical curiosity but a real equation with actual physics involved.

A hard calculation of angles and leverage.

This man has me out here doing mental geometry.

This is not how I react to Josh.

Josh never took up space like he was entitled to it. Josh never once made me think I needed to sit on him to see how our bodies lined up.

“I’m picking up a heightened heart rate and increased cortisol and estrogen. You are either afraid that we may have intercourse, or you’re excited that we might.”

“You need to get your sensors fixed.” I laugh too loudly, trying to play off whatever the hell is going on with my body. “Fear and desire are about a thousand miles away, buddy.”

“Not…always,” he says a little softly. And now I’m thinking about the kinky Hunter-Prey sex he must be having somewhere. “Look, Fawl, I would like us to be friends. If you can live without ‘skinship’ for a time, I will make sure your time here is…as comfortable as possible.”

“Friend,” I say, testing the word out, “are you impotent?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Or are you in love? Is that why you won’t consummate…?”

He looks away. “I am physically capable, yes, and love…love is…messy.”

I’m not surprised to hear him shy away from such a primitive word. Of course. Machines don’t muck about in emotions. Love is for people down in the mines, those of us who still cling to our old wiring.

The mannies oil and lotion my body, pulling and squeezing on my hips. All this is in full view of Ben, who watches with languid interest as his neuro-linked bot massages the inside of my thigh.

“Lot of liquids involved,” I agree, but my pulse shoots up. There’s something about how he looks, something fragile in a man who is supposed to be unbreakable.

The corners of his mouth pull up again “Messy.” He nods, and the word is thick. “I was engaged. What we had was neat. Clean-cut.”

I would personally not enjoy the love of my life calling our relationship clean-cut.

Josh and I were a practical arrangement, a logical equation. But there was love, right? Stability plus shared ambition equaled a future. He was never the kind of person to grab my face in the dark, to kiss me until we were breathless, to make me feel this heaviness low in my belly.

But clean-cut is diabolical.

“So, what will you do with a skin bride you won’t touch?”

His brows knit together. “Do not let anyone call you that. It is a hurtful word up here. You are not my skin bride but my wife. And I intend to treat you like one with full rights,” he replies, voice low. “In this room, we’ll be equals.”

I almost laugh at that. Could we ever really be equals? Ben is a man designed to conquer armies, shatter bones, and, it seems, fight a smile. And I’m a soft-bodied anomaly in a world of titanium efficiency. But the way he says it, with such quiet intensity, makes me believe he means it.

A bot zips in with a bundle of soft clothing, and Ben lifts and drapes the items over his arm. Without a word, he steps closer. The fabric shimmers as fine as water and as rich and blue-black as the night.

“Equal,” he says again. His voice is steady and low, trying to convince me he means no harm.

But my breath still catches at the tentative touch of his metal fingers on my upper arms. He lifts the midnight-black silk slip over my head.

The material falls through my raised arms and whispers over my skin like liquid.

The contact sends a shock through me, tightening my nipples under the silk.

I instinctively draw back, and he pauses.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re shivering. That’s all,” he notes, devoid of mockery.

“I’m not cold,” I manage. I hate how breathless I sound, but it’s impossible to control it with him all huge and radiating heat while standing so close to me.

His eyes linger—longer than necessary—at the hollow of my throat.

“Remarkable,” he says. His tongue moistens his lips. An embarrassing flush creeps up my neck, and I struggle to maintain eye contact, but his unwavering gaze makes me feel more than naked. For a covetous moment, I think, is this the way he looks at whoever he loves? God, I would be drunk from it.

He moves behind me and adjusts the gown’s bodice, and I suck in a breath. I realize then that nobody touches me. When did I become okay with never being touched, even by Josh?

“Is this how you dress all your brides?” I ask, attempting to mask my gasping response.

His mouth twitches—barely a smile. It’s more like the ghost of one. “I have no other brides.”

His voice is matter of fact, but, gentle reader, I. Am. Not. Breathing.

He moves in front of me again, and his fingers linger at my waist as he adjusts the dress’s intricate belt. His eyes briefly flick up to meet mine.

“It’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable,” he says quietly.

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I say too fast. I’m swallowing too much. All I hear is the clicking in my ears. I can feel the strength of his arms, the barely contained power that makes me both a little scared and a little hot.

Oh, look at that.

“Tell me about the person you love,” I ask, trying to ground myself in something real, something human. “I mean, the clean-cut relationship.”

“Ah, Lily.” He steps back until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking me over in the silk dress with approval.

“I’ve known Lily since I was in short pants.

She is simply the most elegant woman to grace this earth, not to mention an extremely logical choice,” he says, easing himself onto the bed like a lazy cat.

The way the metal moves with him, following the natural lines of his body, so silent, so fluid like it’s breathing with him, brings up images unbidden of him claiming me, corded back muscles rippling—

Nope.

No.

I blink away the thoughts.

This is a gift, Fawl. His dedication to Lily is freedom.

“Why aren’t you with her?” I press.

“The plan. I couldn’t follow it.” He shrugs. “It complicated things between us. All of us above-grounders are supposed to be on the same side,” he explains. “And you? Why would a Diamond volunteer to be anyone’s”—he looks for the right word—“pet?”

I tell him with as little emotion as possible about my ten years with Josh and the spectacular failure of an ending.

What’s the play here, girl? How exactly do I make myself useful to a creature whose needs are mostly met by a well-oiled maintenance schedule? I search for it.

“This wife thing could actually help you get Lily back—make her jealous,” I say.

His silence is…LOUD

His eyes flicker again, the gears turning behind them. “And what do you get out of this?”

The question is strange to me. How to say, I need someone to feel the pain of losing me, or I need to find out if you’re trying to kill us all? I look down at him, his cool platinum shoulders and his yards of smooth brown skin.

“I want something a little less lofty,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I want revenge.”