Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Dahlia
A peculiar sight emerges on the silvery belt ahead.
As we near it, I make out the shape. A building—a roadhouse of sorts—a dot of eerie civilisation set against the hazy highway.
The rumble of various engines permeates the air as we pull alongside a row of mismatched motor vehicles.
All made with madness.
Salvaged parts and faded paintwork, horns curling from the large front lights, pipes cracking.
Preparing, I pull my mask up to cover my nose and mouth. I try to open the door, but the pressure of the wind wrestles with me. “How do?—”
Lagos pushes it open.
I close my eyes as the sand whips inside the vehicle.
Lagos stands with Spero and me in his arms and walks us through the Redwind to the porch, his legs unfaltering, stature pressing through the dense atmosphere.
The howl of a turbine reminds me that they are all around us, but I can’t see them anymore.
The weathered brick walls bear scars, chips, and cracks from the cruel gale but protest the damage by remaining robust.
And lively.
Walking into the derelict roadhouse, I see girls scantily dressed in worn stockings and ill-fitted corsets. I understand why Tomar was reluctant to stop here. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to stop early, but that he didn’t want to stop… here.
Lagos thumps over to a long bar that runs the entire length of the room, a flock of women already on his heels. Hands slide down his back, stroke his spine, desperate for his attention.
“Hey, big boy.”
“We missed you.”
Too focused on the petite hand on Lagos’ shoulder, I startle when the old door slams behind me, shutting the howling and gale outside.
The bar falls quiet.
Spero gurgles in my arms.
It’s dim here, shadows and shapes scattered around, and the slow dancing of smoke from lit cigarettes becomes flags above each figure.
“Wait here with me.” Tomar’s voice comes from beside me.
Lowering my mask to the crook of my neck, I shake my hair loose, the red ribbons cascading around me.
And the air thickens.
Several eyes snap in my direction. All from large Xin De men spread out across the room.
“Take her to the back,” Lagos orders Tomar, returning to our side with a large rusty key. His onyx eyes hit me. “You stay in the fucking room, little flower.”
A man with his back to us, sitting further down the bar, suddenly slams his drink on the wooden top. “I can smell her from here, Lagos! What the hell are you doing with a Lace Girl in my house?”
Lagos keeps his back to the man, eyes sliding across my face. “She's not a Lace Girl.” He brushes my hair over my shoulder, such a gentle, uncharacteristic show of affection. My knees buckle. “Not anymore.”
“Who is she, then?” One of the girls poses, tone tight.
A brunette leans backward on the bar, facing us. “You used to be a Lace Girl? I never understood that Trade. The point of it, that is.”
Another girl with too-blonde hair positions herself next to her, and I glance over at them, readying myself for the usual disdain.
“Tell me, Lace Girl, because I have always wondered,” the blonde starts. “When you wake up from being drugged and fucked, and his cum is leaking from between your thighs, do you feel pure and wholesome then?" Her blonde eyebrow cocks in a display as provocative as her words.
Past me would have tried to be friendly, even worked to change her opinion of me and my Trade. What is the point? I would have once felt sorry for her, but I’m wary of the perpetual tolerance that conditioned my Trade.
“That has never happened to me,” I state, straight-faced.
She scoffs, and it’s angry—bitter. “ Ugh . Of course. He cleans you up.” Her hands clap in a sloppy way. “Well fucking done. What a fucking gentleman.”
Lagos is striding toward them, face tight with barely controlled rage. Before I can stop him, he is grabbing each girl by the throat and lifting them from the ground. Unfathomable fury ripples the muscles beneath his shirt.
“Lagos, no!” I step forward, reaching for him, but Tomar catches my elbow, stopping my hand in the air.
Lagos goes very still.
The girls claw his forearms, chins to the ceiling, mouths open in choked screams.
I cup the back of Spero’s head and circle my fingertips against his crown to counter the rapid rate of my heart. “ Lagos .”
Lagos glares at them as the brunette slowly turns grey, and the blonde has a wet patch spreading out between her legs. “Don’t say my name like that.”
What? I swallow over my fear for them. “Like what?”
“Like I care what you think .” Lagos’ voice is cold and detached. “With that long, pleading tone. It won’t work on me, Lace Girl.”
I panic, my heart beats between my ears and with nothing better to say, nothing more convincing, only another, “ Lagos …”
“Fuck!” A low, inhuman growl breaks from him. When he opens his fists, the girls drop to the floor.
The blonde gasps for air, palming her neck, while the brunette crawls away on her hands and knees.
My body twitches to go to her and help her to her feet. Check her over and apologise, but I find loyalty rooting me to the ground. Loyalty to Lagos.
That thought shakes me.
I clutch my heart, inhaling hard. I don’t know what that was about or why he reacted so viciously to mere words. I am used to the scornful ways of House Girls. Or was it their interruption that bothered him, not the words they said?
It doesn’t matter.
I don’t need to agree with his ways, having already accepted that we are very different, but it doesn’t feel right questioning him in front of others. In private, maybe.
If he will tolerate it.
Lagos spins around with his arms open wide. “Anyone else have anything to say?” He pauses, and everyone in the room tries to melt into their chairs. “No? Good. No one comes in the back room. We will be occupying it for the night.”
“B-but.” The man who first slammed his fist on the bar now wipes the sweat from his forehead. “I need an exchange for this?—"
“I will leave you a crate of dried fish as. Fucking. Always!” Lagos booms, rounding on him. “Don’t insult me.”
The man visibly trembles, head lowered and hunched forward over the bar as though he wishes to disappear into his own shoulders. “Easy, Lagos.”
“Come with me,” Tomar says, his voice clipped and tight, guiding me through the bar to a door set in a far corner.
It opens to a narrow hallway, lit from above with a flickering light and walled with aged paper, the top corners folding over like bunny ears.
As we shove open a door and walk inside, the shift in pressure lifts dust particles from various boxes and furniture. The back room is chaotic. I sneeze.
Crates are stacked carelessly along one wall, each balancing on the cusp of toppling over. I scan the space, spotting a single bed buried under bags and suitcases. Some unzipped and open, others layered on top of each other. The room is cluttered, and I wonder how the space is used.
“Take the bed. Get some sleep.” Tomar waves to a couch buried by clothing. “I’ll sleep there.”
I stare at a strange stain in the centre of the bed. Just the sight of it makes me want to throw up. “I should be getting used to this.” Discomfort tugs at me.
“ Oh , Dahlia.”
“I’m sorry. I’m being unappreciative.”
“You’re not supposed to be used to this.” Tomar moves toward me and touches my cheek. Stroking the corner of my mouth, he says, “Smile more. You have the loveliest smile.” I appease him with a subtle smile. “You’ll be at the Common Community soon. A safe place to raise Spero. Far away from this violence. I know that his brutal ways are hard to stomach, but those girls shouldn’t have spoken about you like that.”
I wasn’t even thinking about Lagos or what happened in the bar at that moment, but apparently, he was. And now, I don’t want to appear insensitive or disappoint him with my selfish concerns.
Deep breath. I nod with assurance, holding his gaze, but notice a huge dark shape in the doorway behind him.
Lagos is frozen in the gap, brows drawn in tight, spearing his black gaze at Tomar’s hand. “Have I interrupted something, Tomar?”
Tomar drops his hand from my cheek. “I think Dahlia needs some privacy to feed Spero.” With a quick turn, he starts toward the doorway, having to shoulder past Lagos, who refuses to move an inch.
After Tomar leaves, there is an uneasy pause, almost like the room itself takes a sharp breath in and holds it.
Alone with Lagos…
Swallowing, I divert my attention to the bed. A dull ache in my side reminds me how utterly useless I am. And yet, I need to move these cases.
Behind me, I hear the sound of Lagos’ boots drumming the floors as he approaches. “I have a clean sheet and spare clothes. Used but clean.” He stops behind me. I spin around, forced to arch my neck to meet his sharp, dark gaze. “I made sure of that.”
His closeness makes me silly.
“I’m missing underwear.” I can’t believe I just said that. So I add, “I mean. I only have two pairs. Do you think we can find some somewhere?”
“Missing?”
“I mean, they were left in my room, I think.”
“Hm.” Then he turns his hulking body to leave.
Panic lodges in my throat.
What if he goes to one of those girls for company?
Is affection sickening? Because nausea rolls through my belly as the memories of Lagos thrusting into that girl, needing her, inside her, all over her. And Sweets’ words of admiration and esteem; ‘He can fuck for a full day. We close The House when he’s in a mood like this.’
What mood is that?
Angsty feelings hammer through me. “Stay.” I grab his thick wrist, and he stops midstep. “Stay with me.” The desperation in my voice makes me cringe, but I hold his wrist tighter.
With his back to me, his chin turns until I see the outline of his profile. Dark eyes contemplate my request below deeply furrowed brows.
He looks… tired—open.
Funny, I always thought of him as this grumpy free-ranger, a rogue without a care in the world, but I was mistaken. So mistaken. Just because he doesn’t share his emotions doesn’t mean they are not painful. His thick, muscular body is ripping with silent burdens I didn’t see.
Each scar.
The plate on his skull.
The sneer.
All bloody secrets.
And something inside me flips around. I realise it’s not just my body that wants him anymore. Not just primal and instinctive. Not merely longing in my muscles—no.
There is warm affection in my chest. The pure kind. As though, I want him over me, his body covering mine, his thick muscles loosening because I don’t want anything from him. He can just be. Can relax. And his world will become a little less… heavy.
If only for a moment.
“ Lagos .” When I breathe his name this time, it holds a heavy message. I want his gentle side. I say it aloud, because maybe no one ever has, and maybe no one ever will. “I don’t want to hate you,” I whisper. “You said my hatred was all you liked about me, but I don’t want to hate you. And I don’t. Not even when you’re mean, so you don’t have to be. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t work. I don’t hate you,” I repeat. “And I won’t. Not even if you want me to, so please don’t punish me for it.”
My face goes bright red—I feel the embers of embarrassment. I may be a silly girl, but my declaration isn’t made from soft, na?ve thoughts but from a genuine, deep appreciation for him.
He slowly edges around, tight unease twirling in the dark depths of his almost black gaze. I feel his body burning as he stands before me, a looming form.
He reaches for the back of my head, fingers feeding into my red hair this time, supporting my neck as I peer up at him. “I will not be cruel to you again, little flower.”
I try not to whimper. He was cruel. “Okay. Thank you.”
Warm fingers make circles at my neck and crown. “Why do you want me to stay?”
I get lost in his gaze for a moment. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly, just as Spero starts to fuss, severing the thick tension between us. I blink, and it seems to release us.
My foot shuffles backward once, and I turn to cringe at the bed.
“Stop.” He removes the bags and suitcases and strips the sheet for me in one movement before covering the mattress with a new sheet.
Once he’s finished, I grit my teeth and amble up on the bed, setting my back against the bedhead. My rib pangs, but I endure it. I need to get Spero used to the feel of my breast, to— I don’t know… rehearse for when we have no food left.
I need to try breastfeeding him.
Apprehension finds little nerves inside me and picks at my courage.
“Will you stay while I try to feed him?” I don’t know what I’m thinking, but my vulnerabilities lunge for him. “I don’t want to be alone while I do this, and you are entirely the wrong person, and yet I can’t imagine anyone else being here—” Stop talking. “For some reason.”
He stares at me for a few heartbeats, and my lungs fill with anxious breaths…
Until he finally nods.
He crosses the room and lowers his massive body to the floor in front of the door, creating a heavy barricade with his form… For privacy. I didn’t even think about that, but he did. That’s why I want him here, to share this responsibility.
I should be embarrassed to do this in front of him, but I’m not. Should feel ashamed. This doesn’t seem like the kind of activity a normal girl does in front of a Xin De male like Lagos.
I should change my mind.
Ask him to leave...
He won’t mind.
A heavy sigh leaves him, and he drops his back to the door, his eyes level. Frown fixed.
I watch him for a moment, trying to pick up on a small sign that he doesn’t want to be here. That he finds the entire thing distasteful and strange.
Without moving a muscle, his dark gaze meets mine. “I’m here.”
He answers my insecurities.
Spero is crying, a needy sound, so I position my own little burden on my lap and drop one side of my shirt-dress and bra, exposing my left nipple. It tightens to a point.
My eyes lift to Lagos, wanting to know if he has looked away. I find his gaze unwavering—grounding. His attention seems to carry support, giving me air, offering me comfort, normalising… We are in this together.
I should want him to look away, but his gaze and time is dedicated to me, somehow making the weight of my uncertainties a little lighter.
Don’t look away, Lagos.
With a steady breath, my eyes fall to Spero. I’ve no idea how to do this. None. It should be pretty straightforward, right?
I position my nipple between his little lips, cradle the back of his head, and just… wait. His chubby hands pat and palm my breast, entertained by the new feeling.
Nothing happens.
He doesn’t even suck. Just sits babbling with the nipple between his lips. It might take time.
I sigh heavily. "I was breastfed by a Sired Mother,” I say, making conversation, looking up at Lagos. “Were you?"
He stares at me, dark eyes eclipsed by serious brows. Silence sweeps over the room then, and my pulse pitter-patters in my throat. I thought the question was innocent… But I was wrong. Something deeply emotional drowns inside his gaze. "I'm certain I wasn't,” is all he says.
He answered. That is… huge.
A small smile touches my lips. "It'll be in your file. You were a Trade man, so you'll have a file. It has everything in it." I chance the subject again, but don’t push for any details.
"Hm."
I use my finger in Spero’s mouth, then try my nipple again. Filling the personal moment with words. “Do you want to know what’s in my file then?"
"Yes,” he answers so quickly, my heart soars. Even if he only wants to help me through this, even if his attention is fleeting. Just for today. Just for this moment. For the milk. I don’t care.
My heart soars anyway.
"It said that I liked bananas,” I start, smiling down at Spero and moving my nipple in his mouth. He sucks a little. This is good. “But I haven't had one in years, so I can’t confirm that. And I used to draw patterns on everything, not pictures, just swirls, but I used to do it for hours and hours—” I smile and take a big breath. “Or so it says. What do you like?” I gaze up from Spero, finding Lagos still watching. “Or did you like, when you were a child?”
"I don't remember,” he states, firm but gentle. “Tell me more about baby Dahlia.”
“I like this side of you.” Too much. I clear my throat. “I, erm, I first laughed at four months old. And I loved gazing at myself in the mirror from five months old and apparently never stopped as a child.” I shake my head, amused by myself. “I don't know why."
His eyes soften on me. “I do."
My breath catches.
Does he mean… is he implying that… That he thinks I’m worth gazing at?
"Have you…” I falter. ‘I do’ stirs inside me, making me feel silly. I need to move the conversation along, or I will drown in those two words. “Have you ever read your baby file?"
He doesn’t move a muscle, his features schooled. "No."
"I wonder if you used to smile as a baby,” I say, my tongue getting the better of me. “Or if you— Maybe you just didn't like the way it felt… Or something.”
"I doubt I smiled as a baby."
A knot forms in my belly. Lagos is irrevocably sad. I want more than anything to hold baby Lagos and make him smile. “But everything is wonderful when you're a baby,” I try.
"Not for everyone."
My throat thickens, forcing me to look at my little assassin. I sigh. "It will be for Spero.”
"Thanks to you."
“And you,” I add, but that makes his frown deepen. "I'm not lactating,” I admit as Spero starts to scream with hunger, fussing for the bottle. “What if we can't get him food, Lagos? I have to make this work. If he went hungry and was in pain. I couldn't bear it.”
"I won’t let that happen.”
I stare straight at him. “You're in this with me then? Protecting him? What has changed?" Whether it’s the hormones, my failed attempt at breastfeeding, or baby Lagos with no smile, I feel heat prickling the backs of my eyes now.
"You took a beating for the Shadow baby.” Lagos rises to his feet, rolling his shoulders like a beast after a long sleep. He approaches me. “That changed everything, little flower.”
A tear pinches the corner of my eye as I lay Spero on my lap and retrieve the bottle instead—defeated. He sucks on the bottle, eager. I failed.
Feeling Lagos’ warm, magnetic presence standing over me, I look up at him just as a single tear slides down my cheek. "Can you tell me one thing you like then?” I wipe at the insolent tear. “Just one?"
His dark eyes track my tear. " You ."
I inhale hard, my lungs drawing in the word, wanting to hold it inside my chest and keep it forever.
He likes me.
The door pushes open, Lagos steps to block me, and I pull my sleeve up to hide my breast. Sniffling and wiping carelessly at my wet eyes, I look across to find Tomar is standing in the doorway.
He shifts his gaze between Lagos and me. “Why are you crying, Dahlia?”
“Knock,” is all Lagos says.
“Given I knew you were in here, I didn’t think that was necessary.” Tomar folds his arms over his chest. “My mistake?—"
“Yes, it was.” The possessiveness in Lagos’ tone stirs the air, brewing a storm that scares me.
This has to stop.
I breathe out in a rush. “It’s okay. I was trying to feed Spero. We didn’t know it was you.” I attempt to soften this entire situation, adjusting my clothing. Careful not to move too quickly and trouble my broken rib, I climb slowly to my feet.
There is something unspoken between them, making my chest squeeze and ache.
It’s my fault.
“I have food for you.” Tomar walks across the room, and Lagos disappears from it, fists tight by his sides. “Here you go.” The door closes, and I force myself to look at Tomar, not the door.
I’m handed a small bowl with what looks like potatoes and a few strips of meat. “It’s snake,” he says.
My eyes widen. “Snake?”
“Just pretend it’s fish.”
I cringe. “It’s fish.” A roll of nausea moves up my throat, so I swallow it down. Looking at the door, I find myself longing for Lagos. He might have lied to me and said it was fish, but Tomar is honest. I should want honesty, shouldn’t I?
Protection from unpleasant truths that won’t actually hurt me seem pathetically nice.
Picking at the potato with my fingers, I sit on the bed while Tomar prepares the room, ready to sleep in.
In a quiet kind of limbo, we spend time eating and preparing the beds, and finally, Tomar lies down on the single sofa. Resting his forearm on his head, his knees lifted so he can fit on the cushions, he inhales deeply and exhales everything—surrendering to his exhaustion.
I spend the following few hours on my back with Spero tucked between me and the wall, blinking at the ceiling, listening to the muted but provocative conversations outside the room.
Is Lagos having fun?
Is he being… entertained ?
I cover my face with my palms and groan, needles of jealousy prick at my insides. This may be the last time he can ‘fuck’ things. I roll to face the wall, my lungs squeezing, withholding precious air. I can’t breathe.
He said he likes me.
Apparently, I like bananas, but that doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy other fruits. I bet this roadhouse is open all hours, so he can really get the urges out. One girl after another.
I close my eyes and feel tears pressing through my lashes. Why? I clutch my stomach as it twists. Why is it physically hurting me? He isn’t my lover. He’s merely my guide, a reluctant one at that. Just helping me escape.
That is all he owes me.
I focus on serious matters: This might be the last stop with food and company. The further north we travel, the further from civilisation, the more savage and unpredictable The Cradle will become.
I peer around the room. This may be one of the better stops. I swallow at the thought.