Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Dahlia
Water lapping, a motor humming, the scent of oil and liquor and blood all seep into my senses in slow waves of consciousness that pull me from the dark, peaceful space I’m in.
Then pain.
Along my abdomen, sharp agony throws a cry up my throat. I try to sit but scream and fall backward, hoping the flare of pain will stop if I lie still, but it doesn’t.
It continues now that I’m awake.
I squeeze my eyes shut and block out reality as it tumbles back. The image of the drifter beating me and the helplessness I felt.
“Don’t move, little flower.”
Lagos.
When I hear his deep, otherworldly timbre, relief floods me, bringing with it the hazy recall of his sharp jaw and black gaze. Of his face over mine. Of his big, rough hands washing me in the cove, carrying me through the streets, and…
That’s all I remember.
My eyes flutter open to see him cross the room to a table. He is shirtless. Bulky muscles roil beneath tattooed skin.
I peer down my body, seeing a loose black shirt, the neck scooping lower than my collarbone and hanging off one shoulder—the thing drowning me to below my knees with a hood flap at my back.
But it’s the rip in the middle, exposing my hip, that catches my breath. It is his shirt. The one I tore a few weeks ago.
“Lagos,” I beg. I didn’t mean for his name to sound so desperate, but every muscle hurts so intensely that I can’t feel the ones that don’t.
“I’ve got you.”
He returns to the side of the bed, leaning over me; his warmth is a blanket of safety. That’s his presence. I don’t know how a man so cruel and cold can somehow make me feel the safest I’ve ever felt.
A cool glass touches my lower lip. I part my mouth, and as he pours a familiar bitter liquid along my tongue, I blink over the rim at him. At his rugged and brutally beautiful face so close to mine. I thought his irises were black, but they are dark grey, like steel, a strange colour that I cannot tear my eyes away from. As if gravity resides within that hue.
I swallow, and he leans back, saying, “Opi.”
I know.
I nod. “I know the taste.”
“We found it in your pack.”
“Spero?” I feel odd, my throat rough, voice hoarse from overuse, but I can speak without pain.
“Safe. With Tomar.”
I sigh into the mattress, my body sinking. Heavy eyelids beat my vision away. I don’t fight fatigue. Warmth curls inside my stomach as the Opi works, a serpent of blissful ignorance coiling around the pain, hiding it.
It works quickly, sporing into the bloodstream through every vessel. It’s small molecules that ride red blood cells. Less than a minute; that is how long it takes to reach every corner of the body. Such things I learnt in my studies. To make sure we don’t drink our tea and then decide to stand.
Grief hits me. “Tide.”
Lagos rises. “Sleep.”
Without thinking, I reach out my hand for him, wanting his warmth, fingers lingering in the void of his body, just before everything goes black.
* * *
Everything is hazy, my memories, senses and the feel of my own body, but time is rolling while I am in and out more often than I can recall.
I have nightmares.
Reliving the beating.
Crawling to Tide…
Too late to save him.
When I open my eyes again, they sting with tears. I blink. I see a large circle of light reflected opposite me on an unfamiliar door. Was that always there? I blink at it. Where is that coming from? Where am I?
Lifting my chin, I manage to look over my head at the wall behind me. There is a small window filtering muted light. Like the portal ones on a boat…
Am I on a boat?
Tomar and Lagos. Spero.
The names come back with clarity. Just as I lift my hand to rub my eyes, something slides along my forearm like a thin snake.
I look down at my body. A black shirt swallows me. Oh, that’s right—it’s Lagos’ shirt. Did he… undress me?
A tube, with a clear fluid, lays over my arm. I follow it to the back of my hand, where it disappears beneath a strip of tape and into my flesh.
Panic surges inside me. “What is that?”
I follow the other end until I see a bag hanging from a rail. Whatever is inside it is going into my veins. I’ve seen this before… The memory helps me settle. In the Lace House, a girl named Banksia was mauled by a cat, and they administered medicine directly into her veins.
Then I hear, “We could have taken the infant to the Common Community without her.”
That’s Lagos.
Stilling my every muscle and breath, I wait silently and listen to the voice outside the room.
I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty for eavesdropping. Spero is mine, so any conversation involving him is mine to hear. I try sitting again, but a pang of pain strikes just below my breast, warning me to make each move with grace and caution.
“We could have left her with the Marshals. Now we have an extra burden with a damn broken rib and annoying voice.”
Broken rib?
I cup my side and wince.
Annoying voice?!
I scowl at the closed door. And I know I should be grateful to him. He didn’t have to help me, didn’t have to put himself in danger for me. But he did. He saved me.
He’s still mean.
“She was meant to be the mother,” Tomar states, his voice flat… Too flat. Is he unwell? “She was meant to be lactating, so he would have food as we cross the desert.” His sigh is heavy, and I can almost feel it from here.
“But she isn’t the mother, is she?” There is a heavy pause. “Go rest. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” With that, footsteps fall outside the door just before it opens.
I am glaring at the gap that Lagos now fills, burning a hole into his bare chest.
“Just the welcome I expected.” He smirks. “Are you in pain or just that pleased to see me?” He strides in, all those muscles rippling with each step. It’s male—so very male, and I despise how much I want to feel them beneath my fingertips.
I hold my rib and cut my gaze to the bag on the rail. “What is in there?”
“Fluids,” he grunts. “And Opi.”
I glance at the needle under my skin. “Did you put this inside me?” A shiver rushes along my spine at the thought of him caring for me while I sleep. Of him touching me gently. Of his hand on mine.
Removing my soiled clothes…
“No.” He slumps to the floor, severing that unwelcome vision.
Through a slight wince, I peer over the edge of the bed to find a green, thin rollout mattress on the floor.
“Tomar did it,” he adds.
Lifting his knees, he makes his huge body somehow fit into the space on the floor.
I watch without moving. “What are you… What are you doing?”
He cups the back of his head. “Resting.”
“In my room?”
And closes his eyes. “It’s my room.”
I huff—my annoying voice. “Well, can I go back to my room? I have things in there. My beibao , my… things.” My sentence trails to a whimper. Oh… Sorrow claws at my abdomen. “Things Tide gave me.”
He hums, indifferent.
Anger burns through me. I see Tide’s body bleeding out, hear his rumbled chuckle in my heart, and wish I didn’t go there that night. Tide. Maple.
Who is left?
You’re alone.
“I want Tomar!” I don’t know why, but I want to wound Lagos. To reject him. Lashing out at him feels mean and… good.
Unaffected, he rumbles sleepily, his voice darker, deeper. “He won’t be available today. Give me an hour to sleep, Lace Girl, and I can be at your beck and call instead.”
“I don’t want—” I groan, my face growing hotter and hotter with irritation. Breathe. He saved me. Be gracious. “I don’t want him at my beck and call . Just…” I lift my hand and cover my eyes, wanting to cry from pure emotional fatigue. “Where is Spero?” I drop my hand. “Who is watching him?”
“Tomar just fed him. He’s asleep.”
Well… I stare at the ceiling. My skin prickles with the need to jump up and do something, walk, wash, anything human, but every other part of me protests. I’m exhausted. Fatigue holds my muscles. Holds my mind. I am not ready to face the world. A place less wonderful without Maple and Tide… I stifle a sob, not wanting Lagos to hear.
“You didn’t hand him over.” Lagos’ sudden utterance crashes down on me.
I swallow my tears and clear my throat. “What?”
“You took that beating, little flower, and you didn’t tell him where the infant was.” And he sounds angry, disgusted, even.
“Of course I didn’t,” I say, and to my horror, my voice shakes at the memory. I thought I was going to die, but in the moment, I recall only wishing it happened fast. Spero’s whereabouts would remain a secret if only I die fast…
A dark chuckle leaves him. “Like it’s what anyone would do in that situation? You’re wrong. This is The Cradle. Women sacrifice their young all the time to save their own skin. You’re foolish. The infant isn’t even yours. Isn’t even human.”
Neither are you.
I breathe, only half in control of what I say or do due to the Opi in my system. So much Opi. More than I’ve ever had before. I’m sinking into exhaustion even as we speak.
And his crumbs of concern are wiped away by blatant prejudice, making me want to curl into a ball. People I care about are dying, Maple and Tide. My heart presses further into my chest, hiding. I lost Maple, lost Tide. I will not lose Spero.
“I don’t care what he is. He is mine.”
Without looking at him, I sense his disapproval. Feel the air around me still… freeze… My declaration hangs in the atmosphere, then he finally growls, “Don’t do that again, little flower.” His voice is dark and gruff with an authoritarian edge that accepts no argument. “Don’t save his life if it means risking yours.”
I sniffle. “You saved me and risked yours.”
“It’s endearing that you believe I was ever in danger. I told you that you’re mine until you’re safe. Take every word from my mouth as a certainty. I don’t lie.”
But who will protect me from you, Lagos?