Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dahlia
Five months later
My nightmare is becoming a dream. Sometimes, I change it. Sometimes, I mindlessly follow it. It is no longer a place I wish to escape, but one I plunge into, achingly familiar with every word, every action and response, eagerly awaiting the finale that never comes…
“I won’t tell you.”
A cruel laugh escapes him. “Yes, you will, baby.”
I roll my head on the ground, disorientated. Struggle to stay conscious.
“You’re a mess, baby. You should see your pretty face covered in blood.” Blunt pain hits my stomach. My face.
He is beating me… But then the drifter lifts his head.
“The infant is near.”
He can’t be. He isn’t.
I know now… It’s Lagos. Even though Spero isn’t nearby, I reach out a shaky hand and grip the drifter’s shirt, trying to hold him to me, to keep him from standing.
“Oh, baby,” he chuckles. “Do you want to play with daddy? I can give you attention after.”
“You’re dead,” I growl…
I jerk upright, the sounds of a rooster and my sobs thrusting me to wakefulness.
Gasping the earthy air that still seems so strange and raw, I gradually level with reality. Somewhere in the distance, through the window behind my head, I hear the lowing of animals, their deep first-light calls echoing from the barns and hutches.
Outside, a door shudders on the hinge, chickens chatter, and the rooster heralds the first-light again.
This is real.
At the farming community.
That was a nightmare…
I should feel relief, but instead I burst into tears.
Every. Single. Night. I wake up at the same point, right before Lagos arrives to save me. Right before I see him. Hear him say, “Close your eyes, little flower.” I can’t hear his voice anymore…
I draw little swirls on my thighs with my finger, soothing myself, aligning myself, gaining enough composure to release the burning pain, letting go of the anticipation of his arrival and his words. I am still waiting for him.
When I am awake, quietly planting seeds and tending to my little plot, I imagine him prowling through the greenhouse with booming predatory grace…
And when I sleep, I suffer the fists of the Shadow that tried to snatch Spero and hurt me. I endure it with bated breath, waiting for the moment Lagos rescues me. Maybe tonight will be different? Maybe tonight I will sleep long enough to see him… Why that night? After that night, I barely left Lagos’ side.
“Good first-light, Dahlia.” Robert’s soft voice comes seconds before he raps at the front door. “Are you dressed? Can I come in?”
I gaze down at my huge black tee-shirt. The hood creates a flap at my upper back, and the tear at my hip is my favourite part.
“No,” I whisper and then clear my throat. “One minute.” Standing on shaky legs, I stride over to Spero’s cot.
A head full of dark hair peeks over the top rail, and chubby hands hold tight. Two big brown eyes watch me slowly approach. No sleep lingers in his beady gaze. He's been awake, probably watching me toss and turn, for a while.
A cozy little sanctuary surrounds him, padded and arranged with linen toys from the community. Little animal guardians to keep him safe: an eagle, a bear, a dog, and a snake.
“Hello,” I say, my voice as lifeless as the void in my chest. I scoop him up, and he babbles as if he understands me and doesn’t blame me. By crown-light, I will have a small smile for him.
I promise.
Planting Spero on my hip, I head to the front of my quaint two-bedroom cabin and swing the door open.
Robert’s hazel eyes drop down my body, considering. “Ah… The community gave you a closet full of clothes, Dahlia. A nice nightgown, too. Why don’t you throw that away?”
My heart twists—his words are unacceptable and terrifying. I can’t remember Lagos’ voice, but this shirt… It lingers with his scent.
“Oh.” I forgot. I meant to wrap myself in the pretty, white nightgown they gave me to avoid the pity in Robert’s eyes.
“How are you feeling?” He clasps his hands in front of his neat beige pants, his stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck like a trophy he refuses to take off. Shoulder-length dark hair frames his sharp jaw, and hazel eyes beam from a perfectly kind face— unassumingly Common. Approachable. Welcoming. The women in the community swoon whenever he is nearby. He is always presentable, with a shaven jawline and hands clean of farm work as he spends his days in a clinical setting.
He is the kind of man I should want… And nothing like Lagos.
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Anything I should know? Any discomfort?” His brows pinch in tight over those assessing hazel eyes.
“Why would there be?”
“Dahlia…” His voice drags my name through puddles of concern. “It took us a while to get you to accept this…” He places his hand on my shoulder, and I don’t flinch from his touch. For the first time, I force myself to allow his compassion. “You’re pregnant.”
I chew my lower lip and place my palm over my swollen stomach. “Oh, is that what this is?”
“Okay. Very funny.” He drops his hand from my shoulder with a knowing chuckle. “I was worried. For a second, I thought you had relapsed. See, most women have a hard time with pregnancy. Heartburn and such. The fetus is growing fast, Dahlia.”
I know. The baby inside my womb belongs to the largest man in The Cradle, the most powerful, stunning, and magnetic man in existence. I know what is inside me; I feel the weight, joy and sorrow of it each and every day. “Any news from Tomar?” I ask, my voice almost retreating.
“Nothing since you asked yesterday.” His bright smile twists, becoming contrived. Hesitation and unspoken words flow to an awkward silence, so he adds, “Should I leave? Do you need more sleep?”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Yes. I’m… exhausted. Spero was fussy last night.”
He nods. “Of course.”
As he turns to leave, I blurt out, “If you hear from?—”
“Tomar,” he finishes. “You will be the first to know. I assure you.”
Any day now…
He will contact them.
They have a group of Common that visit a Hub every second day where they meet with men like Tomar. Men who help Common, like me, escape. If they want to escape. Many citizens appreciate The Trade, their protection and the simplicity of Meaningful Purpose. Others do not.
My hand was forced.
By Maple and Spero.
Watching Robert stroll away past the other cabins, I bounce Spero on my hip.
Guilt trickles through me.
I wish I could be happy, at least enough to smile with appreciation. They accepted me into their community—a secluded village protected from the Redwind by mountainous walls—and gave me a little cabin all my own, freedom, and my own plot in the greenhouse.
It should be perfect.
I close the door, mindlessly walking to the second bedroom that I use as a playroom. Placing Spero on the mat, I crawl down beside him, lying flush on the floor.
My fingers make patterns on my swollen belly, tangling his shirt over the swell, achingly familiar with the moment—me lying here, making swirls and sobbing.
For months.
Jerky, shuddering breaths expel as I fight internally. Not to cry. Not today. His absence, his unborn baby, Spero, and the throbbing between my thighs that begs for him is too much, but it’s the unknown that won’t relent. The questions that canter through me—they destroy me.
Is he dead?
Are they hurting him?
Does he love me?
Was it real? Us…
Or did he just pretend?
My mind swarms with memories.
“Can we pretend that we are from the old-world?” I gaze up at Lagos the Rogue, huge and formidable, a guard dog at the door, and he stares back at me, naked and breastfeeding. “And I am yours and you are mine. Can we pretend that this is our home, and that Spero is our baby?”
“Yes, little flower. You can pretend.”
We seemed to start and end at the same time, going through the motions of survival, never really allowing ourselves to grasp the concept of love… Of us.
Now it’s too late.
I bunch the fabric in my small fists and lift it to my face, smothering my mouth and nose, suffocating in the black shirt that still hugs his wild, magnetic presence.
I sob and wail.
When will it stop?