Chapter Six
I was shaken awake by invisible hands, my eyes tearing apart and my breathing ragged as I focused on the silver-haired man who kneeled above me, the window next to us letting in enough early morning light to make out his grim features. “Reuben,” I gasped.
“Easy,” he said hoarsely, his grip releasing me even as his stare continued to hold mine. “You were having a nightmare. Your scream woke me,” he added.
I pressed a hand to my chest, my heartbeat racing. “I-I’m sorry,” I croaked.
“Don’t be sorry.” He touched my brow before gently running his fingers through my tangled hair. “Past trauma?”
I nodded, then confessed, “I might have escaped from my past but I clearly can’t escape from my memories.”
He clucked his tongue, some strands of his silver hair pushed up high. “That’s when you realize you have to turn around and fight just to keep your sanity intact.”
Didn’t he realize there were some things that couldn’t be fought? My laugh came out grating. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
His smile was crooked. “Then you’d be right.”
“What happened?” I asked.
He cocked his head to the side. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
I shook my head. “I’d rather not talk about my past.”
“Then I guess you want my past to distract you from yours?”
“Please,” I said, my voice as dry as my throat, thanks, no doubt, to my scream.
He shrugged, but I saw a lot of pain in his eyes. “My parents were drug addicts. They spent more time fighting and screaming at each other than they ever did nurturing me. I ran away at thirteen and lived on the streets.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. Believe it or not, I was a hell of a lot better off there than I ever was at home. It wasn’t easy, but I learned fast that being street-smart mattered just as much as any lesson in a book. Maybe more. It was rough, but the fights, the pain, for better or worse, that’s what made me.”
“Fighting?” I croaked, my voice catching as I took in his bare chest, his muscles defined like carved stone and marked with scars. His ink spelled out a phrase along his collarbone.
No fear. No failure.
The words seemed etched into more than just skin. It was as if they carried the weight of every battle he’d fought.
My eyes drifted lower, catching the long, thick outline pressed beneath his gray sweats. The closeness between us suddenly tightened, sparking a heat I hadn’t expected, a sudden rush of awareness that sent my pulse racing.
A flush rose to my cheeks, even as a quiet fire pooled within me. Was this what they called morning wood? If so, his was magnificent.
His nostrils flared as though he’d sensed my reaction, his eyes narrowing. Then he nodded and said in a low voice, “It’s probably better if I show you.”
Something between anticipation and anxiety burned through me. Having never lived a normal life, the anticipation won out. “I’d like that.”
He smiled, though I noticed it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Had he hoped for a different answer? Had he presumed I was a meek and gentle, peace-loving woman? I almost snorted. That right had been taken away from me a long time ago.
“Good,” he finally said. Then bending low, he kissed my brow before moving his weight off the mattress and placing his feet on the ladder’s rungs. “I’ll make breakfast,” he said huskily.
The tingles that lit through me vanished as quickly as his head as he climbed down the ladder, leaving me a little empty and wanting more.
I stifled annoyance, not at him but at myself. I didn’t want a man to want me. Doing so meant physical intimacy, which meant revealing my wings. Which meant showing a part of me that would likely turn any desire in a man’s eyes to disgust.
I couldn’t bear that kind of hurt, I wouldn’t survive it.
The scientists had made me feel inferior for my DNA. Only Adam had seen me as more. That my uniqueness was my value only made my self-aversion harder to shake. I wanted to be loved for me, not for how much one man thought I was worth or how worthless I was to another man.
Yeah, and pigs might fly.
Perhaps they did. I’d never been outside my own little laboratory and living quarters I’d shared with the people I’d counted as both friends and family.
Who knew what other animals in other parts of the facility had been spliced with human DNA.
Pigs might well be one of their experiments, though wings might be a bit of a stretch.
As far as I knew, bats were the only mammal that had wings.
A pan banged as Reuben rummaged through a drawer in his kitchen.
The fridge cracked open, a rectangle of light competing with the growing dawn outside.
I yawned and stretched, thankful for the robe that covered me as I then turned around and put my feet in the rungs, then descended the ladder and stepped onto the cool floorboards.
Reuben had already begun to fry bacon, the scent filling my nose as I walked past then stepped into the bathroom to rinse my face and use the toilet. He was whisking eggs when I stepped back out.
The toaster popped, startling me. I forced a smile. If it hadn’t been for my kitchenette at Adam’s I would never have known this simple part of life.
“Anything I can do?” I asked.
He stiffened, a brief shadow crossing his face, as if my offer unsettled the careful rhythm he kept, a crack in the armor of his relentless schedule. Then he glanced my way and said, “Could you please butter the toast?”
I mentally shook my head. I hardly knew the man, but I trusted my instincts, they’d rarely been wrong.
His eyes flickered, something careful and guarded lurking beneath the surface.
I cleared my throat, breaking the sudden tension. “Sure.” I took a small knife from the block and stabbed its serrated blade into the butter.
He cocked one silver-blond brow, his lips twitching. “That’s a steak knife,” he said, tone mild but precise, before handing me one with a smooth-edged blade. “That’s the butter knife.”
My face heated. “Oh, of course it is.”
I’d had plastic cutlery at the facility, as well as at Adam’s. It hadn’t occurred to me that metal knives had different uses, just as it had never occurred to Adam that I could hurt myself with boiling water just as easily as with a sharp blade.
I buttered the toast while Reuben pulled the bacon from the pan and poured the eggs in, stirring them with a spatula in calm, practiced movements. Everything he did seemed measured, like someone used to following a routine down to the second.
I watched, fascinated by the process, the soft scrape of spatula against pan oddly soothing.
“Anyone would think you’ve never cooked before,” he teased.
I winced. “I haven’t,” I admitted softly.
He paused, glancing over at me like I was something rare behind glass. “Were you born with a silver spoon in your mouth?”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
His brow creased. “It means you’re from a rich family and never had to worry about much.”
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do I look or act rich?”
He turned off the burner, dropped the spatula onto the bench with a soft clatter, and reached for my hands. He turned them over, examining my palms with quiet intensity. “You have soft hands and pale skin.”
“Unlike your rough hands,” I murmured. I looked up at the sharp lines of his jaw, the cool steadiness of his eyes, his lightly-colored bare chest. “But you’re not tanned either.”
He shrugged. “Genetics. My parents were both blond and pale-skinned.” He released my hands and turned back to the stove. “What about your parents?”
My heart skipped a beat. I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady it, but a flicker of tension must’ve shown on my face.
He turned off the stove again and reached for my arm, gently guiding me to the island counter. I sank onto one of the stools.
“Are you all right?” he asked, voice low but focused.
I nodded, relieved when my reaction seemed to pull him away from the question.
“Let me get you some juice,” he said, already moving.
He opened the fridge, light once again spilling across the floor. The glass bottle clinked faintly against another as he pulled it from the door. He poured the juice smoothly, no wasted movement.
I accepted the glass with a grateful nod and drank deeply. “Thank you.”
He studied me as I drank, gaze cool but intent. Adam had looked at me like he was trying to understand me. Reuben looked like he was calculating something.
“Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m considered extremely healthy.”
Unlike the rest of my brethren.
He smiled. “That’s good to hear.”
I relaxed slightly, grateful he didn’t pry further.
He nodded toward the stove. “I hope you like your bacon crispy.”
“Yes, thank you.”
He returned to the pan, plated the food, then carried the two dishes over. The scent hit first, salty, rich, mouthwatering, and my stomach clenched with hunger.
He slid onto the stool beside me, his posture straight, his expression unreadable. “Let’s eat.”