Page 20

Chapter eighteen

Forest

I try to continue my walk toward the art room, keeping my head down, watching my feet, hoping more than anything they will look past me and keep walking. They both move past the art room, where Fallan is concealed behind the door. I watch his eyes pass over the men’s devices, only widening momentarily as we finally make eye contact. He presses his hand to his chest, signaling me to breathe once he realizes who the two men are targeting. I take his advice and slowly allow the first full breath of air to enter my lungs as I ready myself to move past the Officials. Taking another deep breath, I feel them brush past me.

I’m almost in the clear.

A firm hand grasps my arm, stopping me from moving any farther. I pause where I stand, turning my head away from Fallan. I try to narrow my eyes at him, hoping he takes the signal to move out of the doorway before they stop him too.

One of the men is ready to turn around at my gesture. Quickly, I grab his free hand, stopping him from being able to turn, giving Fallan a chance to conceal himself more thoroughly. Fallan looks confused as to why I’d help him. There’s no way for me to tell him I need a witness for whatever is about to happen.

“Is something wrong, sir?” I question, motioning my eyes to the man gripping my arm as harshly as Josh had that day in art class. His nails dig into my skin, making my eyes flood with tears.

“You’re not in uniform, Ms. Blackburn,” the man says, motioning to my overly baggy clothes I hadn’t changed out of yet. I recognize his voice. He’s the one who inputs the code for all of our chips on the night of the screening.

“I wasn’t feeling too good, so I decided to leave class early,” I admit, trying to sound as convincing as possible given the men’s already confrontational demeanors. Fallan watches silently, gripping the edge of the doorway with a tense hand.

“May I ask why you felt the need to grab me so aggressively?” I question, pulling my arm back toward me, allowing myself to step away from the man, only to be met with the body of another Official now closing in behind me. I hold my arm to my body, feeling the sweat collect on my forehead with each stolen glance at the pistol attached to the Official’s sides.

“Pardon me, miss, sometimes I don't know my own strength. People get hurt without me meaning for them to,” the man says, his tone making my blood run cold.

“Well, I still need to change, so if you'll excuse me-” I begin, wanting nothing more than to be as far away from them as possible.

“Why were you and your brother snooping around the grounds this morning?” the man questions, yanking me back by the collar of my shirt.

So, this is why they came for me.

Instinctively, I swat his hand away, looking at Fallan in pure panic. For the first time, he takes a step, pausing once I shake my head at him not to interfere. He looks frustrated, gripping his leg while his foot taps impatiently.

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss, shoving away the man who continued to grab at me. I can tell he wasn’t expecting me to defend myself. “I was helping my brother with a project, and neither of us minded the fresh air,” I say, trying to ignore just how close the man behind me is.

“You know you’ve been quite the troublemaker recently, Forest. Your scorecard has seen more marks in the past week than it ever had in previous years,” the Official in charge of coding growls. His last name is tucked away under his collar. I'm barely able to make out the last name.

Heywood .

“You're questioning me as if I’m an Unfortunate,” I say, feeling my hands shake.

Heywood nods his head toward the man behind me.

My stomach drops the moment the man behind me grabs my waist, forcing me back and into him with a wrap of his arm across my chest. His hand slowly moves across my chest, brushing over my breasts. His hand works its way under my shirt, nearly grazing my mark.

Something cold presses into my lower stomach. I feel the hilt before I realize his blade is touching my skin. I stop squirming as the man’s hot breath moves over the skin of my neck. He laughs maniacally.

Fallan has now fully stepped away from the doorway, clutching his side, ready to do something that would only lead to them trying to kill him. All I can do is mouth for him to go. The man holding me from behind clenches my jaw in his hand, forcing me away from my sideways gaze to Fallan.

My mark begins to burn, making me want nothing more than to pummel both Officials to the floor. Fallan darts behind another indent in the wall, moving closer with quiet steps.

“Get the fuck off of me, you pig!” I shout, feeling the man's hand clamp over my mouth as he lets out another laugh.

“Maybe you’re closer to an Unfortunate than we thought. But they usually fight back less when a blade is pressed to them,” The man behind me says, only urging Fallan to slowly move one more space closer at the mention of a blade.

“I didn’t do anything-”

“Yes, you did,” Heywood begins, putting in a line of code with precise movements. “You were curious. Hopefully, this fixes that. If you weren't Andrew’s daughter, I would have made you a little more susceptible to my friend's wandering hands so we could’ve had a bit more fun together and both gotten something out of this,” Heywood says, my stomach almost unable to hold itself together any longer.

A pain heats behind my ear, stronger than the first time at the screening. I arch my back into the man behind me, feeling his blade nick me. He curses, putting away the weapon that was supposed to be a show of force and nothing more. My head pounds as the pain intensifies. There are fists pounding on the walls of my mind, begging to destroy the barrier to the outside world. I bite my lip as the pain becomes close to unmanageable. Fallan is still pressed against a wall, concealing himself with one of the window curtains.

“She should be good as new after this,” Heywood says, making my heart race.

After a few minutes, the pain slowly begins to die down. I force my head forward to collect my thoughts, letting my quick breaths become steadier once I realize how much control I need to have to keep myself together.

The man's hands leave my body, lingering on all the places Josh had wrecked during our sparring on the mat before he quickly sprays Cure-All on the area he’d accidentally sliced with his blade. Both men take a step back from me, allowing me to raise my head. I mimicked blinking my eyes the same way my brother did when he had come to after code had been sent to his chip that night. I force a vacant expression across my face, doing my best not to let the fear that encompasses my body show through. I let out a small sigh once I realized Fallan had managed to slip away back into the art room. I’m relieved he didn’t get involved. It would have ended miserably for both of us.

“I’m sorry, I must have spaced out,” I say cheerily, looking between the two men with a smile. They both looked pleased with my response, exchanging a look before glancing down the hallway behind me.

“It's okay. We were asking if you were okay.”

These fucking scummy liars.

“You were still in Defense Class clothes, and they’re a bit bloodied, so we figured we’d stop and check on you,” the man who had felt me up and down says. I force him another fake smile, looking down at my clothes with a sigh.

“I bloodied an Unfortunate. I was going to use Mrs. Auburn’s storage room to change,” I say, opening my bag to show the men my uniform. They both look satisfied with my response, giving one another a nod as they both begin to back away.

“Well then, we’ll leave you to it,” Heywood says, motioning his partner to follow him as I stare at my blood still coating the point of the man's blade. I give them a slight wave while I back away. Suddenly, I’m hit with intense nausea that comes over me the moment I turn around. I think of nothing but getting behind the art room door and away from the confinement of this hallway.

There's no way to stop the vomit from leaving my mouth. It burns my throat as I relieve myself over the art room sink. My hands clutch its side, forcing myself to stay on my feet, as I recall every place the Official had touched me. I see Fallan’s figure move to close the door, each camera already turned away and toward the walls, keeping us hidden from the prying eyes. My hand shakes as I continue vomiting, pounding my fist on the side of the sink out of frustration. I finally feel some relief.

“He input code to not only make you forget about the area where you and your brother were searching earlier but to forget everything they said and did to you just now,” Fallan says calmly.

Grabbing a small towel from the clean bin, he begins helping me run water down the sink to hide any evidence of my weak stomach. I keep my head leaning on the sink's rim, watching the water flow down the drain. It's impossible to string together any coherent thoughts right now.

“They did all of that in broad daylight,” I whisper, still feeling the man's breath touching the crook of my neck.

“They do much worse when they’re not afraid of getting caught,” Fallan says. Clenching his jaw, he moves closer behind me. “I need to clean you up, or else we’ll both be getting questioned,” Fallan says sincerely, running the towel under the water for only a moment.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” I whisper.

His hand pauses just as he’s about to reach my face. I lean over the sink, bracing myself for whatever cruel comments I’ve learned to expect in response to any sign of weakness from me.

His hand lands on the back of my neck, gently rubbing the skin with his fingers like he did on the night of the screening. I should be shoving him away, screaming at him for touching me so soon after what happened. His fingers circle the tender spots on my neck, working up into my hair, and I can slowly feel my tension melting away. I feel his hands continue to work gently, moving along my skin like my mother used to, meant to soothe me from headaches when I was a child. His free hand moves to my face with the towel next, wiping away anything left around my mouth. He continues comforting me well after my stomach has settled.

My heart races with each brush of his fingertips over my neck. It’s different from how I felt after the Officials touched me. I want to lean into him, to wrap myself in his scent that I’ve come to recognize. At this moment, I find myself longing to touch him like I’ve watched Valerie touch him. But reality quickly sets in.

I pull my head up from its position, watching his hand fall from my neck. He looks down at me with sad eyes, clenching the towel as hard as he can. My fingers graze the back of my neck.

“How… how did you know that calms me down?” I question, watching something flash over his eyes.

“It was a lucky guess. It works on Valerie. I don’t need you all worked up.”

“Don't lie. You did it once before, at the movie screening,” I say, cutting off his dismissal.

“Like I said,” he begins with a lean toward me. “Lucky guess, Blackburn,” he finishes, tossing the towel in the dirty hamper, moving back toward his canvas, letting whatever interaction we just had wash away with the water down the sink.

“Can our chips kill us?” I question, staring at the running water deep in thought. A box cutter for a paper maché project sits near the sink, the blade clean and sharp, like it’s hardly been used.

“Untouchable chips are non-lethal. I can’t say the same about the ones for the Unfortunates,” Fallan says, grabbing our canvases, letting his eyes linger on my portrait that I’m still trying to figure out the meaning of.

“What do our chips do then, other than make us compliant?” I question, watching his eyes narrow for a moment at the ground.

“They can confuse you. Make you remember things wrong … even Marked like us,” Fallan says, using a name I have only heard in whispers between Officials.

Marked. Tainted. All the same. Words that leave the mouths of those who speak them like a curse that's never meant to be repeated.

“And if the chips were gone?” I question, feeling the cool metal of the box cutter press to my palm.

“Free will, I suppose,” Fallan says, his voice drowned out by the sound of the water in the sink.

I pick up the box cutter in my hand and raise it to the spot behind my ear, feeling the cool metal against my scar there. I’m ready to tear away at the ticking time bomb in my head. I feel the tiniest tear begin, ready to yank it clean from my skull and crush it beneath the sole of my shoe.

“Forest!” Fallan yells, yanking my wrist away from my ear.

Fallan slams my hand on the counter, forcing me back into it with him. I drop the blade, snapping back to reality. His gaze is wild as he looks over me. His knee has me pressed against the counter, his hand holding my wrist, his other clutching my waist. I feel the warmth of his hand above my clothes. He looks feral, ready to rip off someone's head, just as he had in the hallway.

“Did you not hear me?” he questions angrily, moving his hand away from my hip. He gently grabs my jaw, making me look at him. The warmth of his body so close to me sends a fleet of emotions through me. It's different from Xavier and Max. For some reason, I’m not afraid. I want him here. I want him to crave my touch too. It makes me feel like I’m alive.

But he resents me as much as I should him.

“It shouldn't be in my head-”

“It will kill you if you try to remove it. It’s attached to your prefrontal cortex. Remove it, and you go with it,” he says, tossing the blade across the room out of frustration. He leans in closer, trapping me in front of him. “ We don’t make decisions like that. You don’t get to decide that,” he hisses, letting his thumb run down my cheek. His nose is inches away from my own. His blue eyes only look that much bluer at this angle. A slight warmth in my stomach grows once I take notice of where his hands are.

“We?” I question, leaning closer out of anger.

He lets me go, biting the inside of his cheek with a shake of his head.

“You. I meant you,” he clarifies as he quickly looks away from me again.

“I thought you wanted me dead. It would’ve made things easier for you,” I say, watching his hands drag across his face as he lets out a defeated laugh.

“You don’t know anything about what I’d like to happen to you, Forest. What I want eats me alive,” Fallan growls. I admit to myself then that I wanted to know what he wanted. I wanted him to confide in me.

I look down at our clothes, turning my head toward Mrs. Auburn’s small closet.

“We need to change. Or else we’ll just end up in more talks with Officials,” I say, pulling my bag closer. Fallan gives me a nod.

“You go first. I’ll join you shortly,” Fallan says, catching me off guard. The idea of us stripping off clothes and changing together in such a confined space invades my mind and makes my face fluster.

“I don’t know if there’s enough room-” I begin, trying to work through the image of us in the closet alone together.

“It was a joke, Forest,” Fallan says, showing me his first genuine smile.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You were supposed to tell me to fuck off,” Fallan mumbles, and now he’s one to make me smile. He looks caught off guard by it, and his gaze lingers on my mouth.

“Then fuck off,” I say jokingly, moving closer to the closet.

“Is that what you really wanted to say?” Fallan asks after a few silent moments. I pause, ready to let the “yes” leave my lips, but instead, I say nothing, giving him one last look before closing the closet door.

I like the idea of Fallan mulling over something I say for once.

We pat down our uniforms, doing our best to keep them orderly. I smooth down my skirt, wincing every so often at the small incision I had given myself behind my ear and the nail marks Josh had left on my skin. Waiting outside the closet, I clutch my sides, counting down the five minutes before Mrs. Auburn will barrel in here to get prepared for her lesson. A small part of the closet door is ajar, giving me and Fallan the light we needed to change. I caught him peeking inside a few times, quickly looking away the minute my head turned in his direction. But now it’s me sneaking glances into the closet, looking over his scarred skin on his back, his muscles flexing as he moves to put on his clean uniform. My reaction time is much slower than Fallan’s. I reluctantly pull my gaze away, but he catches me each time I try my luck at being a better spy.

I glance over at his canvas perched on the desk, slowly moving closer to study the way its intricate colors work together to create an obscure but solemn image. I pull myself away from the closet, no longer focusing on my appearance or the sound of the door opening on its hinges.

“It's not ready yet,” Fallan says.

His hand brushes away my hair from behind my ear. I flinch away from the touch, still unsure how to react to them after what’s happened today. Quickly, he sprays a small amount of my Cure-All behind my ear, pulling it away from my outstretched hand when I try to grab it from him.

“You're not getting it back that easily, Little Dove,” he says, holding the Cure-All high above his head, enjoying how frustrated I am at his ability to hold something over me.

“You’re as insufferable as that nickname,” I say half-jokingly, moving away from him and closer to my canvas. Wincing as I bend down, Fallan holds his position by his canvas.

“How bad did he get you?” Fallan asks, watching me grab my canvas before I sit in front of his desk.

“It left a mark, if that's what you're wondering,” I say, trying my best not to reflect on the feeling of Josh’s nails digging into my side.

“He deserves a boot in his jaw. All of the Untouchables do,” Fallan barks, taking a seat.

I shake my head at him.

“All of them?” I question, looking back at him with a challenge.

He seems to reflect on what he said.

It doesn’t take long for him to become stone-faced once more.

“Well, it's not like they have many redeeming qualities,” Fallan says, quickly burying the kinder side of him I’ve seen today.

“Just stop, Fallan,” I hiss, feeling the barrier between us growing solid again.

“You have no idea how much I wish I weren’t here. Every time I’m here, it's like torture-” he quietly starts.

My words leave me before I can stop myself from saying them.

“Then go back to your sector where you can enjoy all the freedom you want with your blonde whore that you can't seem to get enough of. No one asked you to be here,” I spit, looking back at him with frustration. He pauses his stroke on his canvas.

Angrily, he peers up at me, watching me return to my mindless strokes across my own canvas.

“She gets in your head, doesn't she…? Why?” Fallan questions, tapping his paintbrush on his desk while he waits for a response.

I ignore his question, continuing to paint.

“I’m not sure, honestly. I think I might be losing it,” I admit. There’s a part of me I can’t stop from lashing out at him.

“Maybe you are,” he says, giving me a long sigh. “But if that’s the case, then I guess I am too,” he finishes, pausing to review my work.

“Your art is beautiful.”

I can feel the honesty in his compliment, and it’s unexpected after how harshly I snapped at him.

“Why do you do that?” I question, turning in my chair to face him, pulling away his paints to get him to focus on me.

“Do what, Little Dove?” he questions. I can’t tell if he’s using the nickname to calm me down or to be condescending, but I’m determined to find out.

“All of it, Fallan. The nickname, this-” I begin, motioning between us, “Why do you act so vile toward me? You act like you hate me, then say something like that?” I question, watching him lean back in his chair as he purses his lips together like he’s trying to stop himself from letting the response fall out of him.

“As if you don’t treat me the same way?” Fallan says, cocking his head at me, relaxing even more.

“I- I don't hate you…. Why would you want me to?” I whisper, gently placing his paints back down. Again, his eyes flash with something I can’t recognize.

“I know you don’t, which makes my life much harder,” he begins, leaning forward in his chair. His face comes within inches of my own, but still doesn’t answer my question.

“If you were smart, you’d change your mind and give in to hating me,” he mutters.

I scrunch my nose anxiously in thought, trying my best to piece together a response to a statement like that.

“There’s nothing to be anxious about,” Fallan begins. I hadn’t realized he’d been watching me so closely. His eyes meet mine again. He taps the end of my nose with his finger. My face fills with warmth at the touch. “You do that when you're anxious. Nothing right now can hurt you,” he whispers, pulling back to his usual position in his desk chair at the sound of Mrs. Auburn entering the room with too many supplies she’s doing a terrible job trying to carry alone.

We both look toward the woman, waiting for her to see us. All she can do is let out a giant sigh of defeat.

“You will not believe the day I’ve had today,” she says, sitting in her chair.

“You're telling me,” I say softly, feeling the tiniest bit of satisfaction at the smile I know is hidden behind Fallan’s canvas.

Rolling my finger over the tip of my nose, I wonder how long I’ve been giving away my anxieties by having them written all over my face. A face that Fallan seems intent on getting to know for all its quirkiness.

Perhaps there’s something more below the surface with him. Maybe something other than hate.