Chapter 10 #2
She nods, palming the pill next to her and popping it dry.
“Faith briefed me. It was Thorne she was with when we arrived, and found out he was throwing an autumnal party after they—” She gestures vaguely and pinches her face.
“Delilah was going to send us both with dresses to change into, but I declined.”
I shift on the bed to face her. “Why?”
“Decisions made under pressure expose character. Unsurprisingly, you were smart, brave, and innovative.”
It’s embarrassing how much her praise warms every inch of my body. “And a traitor,” I reply, and she raises an eyebrow in silent question. “The murder of a region leader is treason. The murder of a region leader by another leader’s daughter is still treason but, like, unseemly.”
“The inter-region laws do not matter anymore,” Taylor dismisses. “Also, you didn’t kill Thorne. I did.”
“I helped. And more than that, I wanted you to. I killed Dusters. Strangers. People. What does that make me?”
“It makes you someone trying to survive.” Taylor rubs her eyes. “Survival is not pretty. It is full of tough choices. It can make doing the right thing feel wrong. But we are doing the right thing.”
“Are we?”
“I have to believe any time someone fights for their freedom and the freedom of others it is the right thing to do.” Taylor blinks and nuzzles deeper into her blanket.
“You took a life—lives—and that is a burden you will always bear. It never gets easier. It should not get easier. But, you did it to save yourself and to save me, so that we may live on to fight for others. Treason or not, that makes you one of us, to me.”
“What does being ‘one of us’ entail? A new uniform? I’m not going to get a tattoo.”
She chuckles. “No, nothing like that. If we succeed, if the rebellion succeeds, I will make sure you are given the choice to stay or leave. Whatever you want to do or be when this is over, we can help you.”
“We? But Theia—”
“Believes there is a place for everyone in the new country,” Taylor interrupts. “It is one of the reasons she is popular. She has no desire to annihilate the Upperclass like previous OrPro leaders. She wants to minimize casualties and bring people together.”
“But I’m not people. I’m different.”
“Your situation is extraordinary, Miss Piccolo, but there is a place for you, if you want it.”
This is quite the turnaround from the woman who found me a liability hours ago. “So, that’s why you kidnapped me, hmm? Because you thought I’d look dashing in olive green?”
Ever so faintly, Taylor smiles. “Something like that.”
“Would you want me to stay?” Helpfully, the pain pill Taylor took seems to be dulling her better senses, as the desperation in my voice must be plain.
“What I want doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Oh.” She sounds genuinely surprised, which breaks my heart. “Then…yes.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, trying to keep hidden the deep thrill within my gut. “Are you growing fond of me, captor?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she mumbles into her pillow.
“That’s not a no,” I singsong to her as I rise off the bed and pad over to our connected doorway. My hand is on the doorknob, about to pull it closed, when I hear a sleepy voice from behind me.
“Lucy?”
Like a lone flame flickering in an old room, warmth spreads in my chest, illuminating corners of my heart I didn’t know were darkened. I hide the smile threatening to grow so wide it sails off my face.
“Yes?”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Taylor.”
Morning arrives on rapid feet. I’ve barely fallen asleep when one of Delilah’s employees wakes me up and informs me of a breakfast served at my leisure in the main dining room downstairs.
Attire is left up to me, so I dress in a sweater and jeans tucked into boots.
After untangling my braid and leaving it down, I brace myself and stare at the door between our rooms and rap on it with my closed fist.
“It’s unlocked, Lucy.”
I duck my head and wait to wipe the stupid smile off my face.
When I open the door, the bed is empty and made, blankets tucked into neat and tidy corners.
Taylor is on the floor doing push-ups. Clad in only a bra and camouflage capri pants, the injured side of her body faces away from me, but the crawling fingers of purple bruising slither along her back like tribal tattoos.
She grunts and continues her workout, punishing herself with each dip toward the floor.
Her eyes haven’t left the ground—I’m sure she’s counting to a million, or however many push-ups is sufficiently unreasonable—but she senses my disquietude from across the room. “Is something wrong?”
Her legs come under her stomach in a crouch, and then she stands up straight and exposes her wounds.
I gawk at the giant smattering of bruises along her side as well as the thick bandage on her ribcage.
I’m shocked she can get out of bed, let alone exercise.
She plants her palms on the ground and kicks up into a handstand, bracing herself against the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing? You are under strict orders to stay in bed.”
Turning on her palms to face me, somehow, upside down, she conveys exasperation. “Who is going to enforce those orders? You?”
“I told you I can be very persuasive.”
Taylor flips down and swivels to face me. “Persuade me into bed? I don’t think so.”
The sheer volume of retorts pummeling their way to the tip of my tongue is astounding. To her credit, Taylor appears blissfully unaware of her innuendo; instead, she’s full of challenge and earnest bravado. I let out a low, humorless laugh. “You need to sleep.”
She furrows her brow. “Sleep?”
“Yes, you know, sleep. It’s what us non-androids do to recuperate after life-threatening injuries.”
“Look, I already slept more than five hours.” Taylor has a lot of talents, but I think the one I’m always most impressed with is her ability to turn the reasonable into the preposterous. A knock on the door interrupts us. “Come in.”
A woman hurries in, hands overflowing with medical supplies. She’s older—well, older than me, younger than Delilah. Somewhere in her late thirties with plump cheeks and dancing green eyes. Attractive enough, I guess. “I’m sure you don’t remember me. I was new when you were here last. My name is—”
“Abigail. I remember you.”
“No need for code names, my dear,” she says in a drawl, and suddenly the inside of my mouth tastes funny. “Katrina will be fine.”
Taylor cocks her head to the side. “Okay.”
Katrina’s shyness is insincere and I find myself growing edgy and impatient. “I’m surprised you remember me.”
“I remember everyone,” Taylor replies with a halfhearted smile. “This is Luciana Piccolo. Miss Piccolo, this is Katrina.”
“Trina.” She rearranges her items to stick a hand out and shake mine. “Huh. I thought they’d at least handcuff you or something. You are an Order prisoner, right?”
How I wish my manners were poor because I’d like to leave her hanging. But I don’t. Instead, I shake her hand a tad too hard. Maybe Taylor senses the nasty retort I have on my tongue, because she quickly asks, “Do you mind telling me why you are here, Katrina?”
“Delilah sent me to check on you. A quick examination of your wounds. And to offer medical help, if you need it.” She provides Taylor with a handwritten note from within her brassiere.
Taylor examines the note, and then returns her gaze to the woman. “Where is Jacqueline?”
She hands the note off to me. In delicate script, it explains to Taylor that she’s not to come down to breakfast without her wounds being attended to by Katrina. Signed with an oversized, flourished D.
“I don’t know.” Doesn’t sound like she cares, either. “Following Delilah’s orders.”
“Fine, but be quick about it, please.”
Katrina removes the bandage from Taylor’s ribs and inspects the cut.
Her wound is not as bad this morning, but it remains crimson and scary.
The woman applies a dollop of salve from a white bottle, using thin fingers to smooth it across Taylor’s skin.
Two butterfly bandages are placed over the wound in thirds, keeping the skin closed.
She takes another bottle and coats both her hands in a milky, off-white liquid.
It fills the air with the scent of fresh daisies, and Taylor scrunches her nose in displeasure.
Katrina spreads the cream on Taylor’s bruised sides, making the blonde tense and squirm under her touch.
“I’m sure it’s very tender. I’m almost done.
How fortunate you’re in such incredible shape.
” Taylor raises her eyebrows but says nothing.
Katrina swings around to Taylor’s back, liberally gooping more cream.
Her eyes catch the same stark black ink mine did in the Order bar and she rests her hand on Taylor’s hip, the other on her back. “Selene.”
Taylor’s jaw clenches. “Excuse me?”
“This tattoo,” she says from over Taylor’s shoulder. “It’s Selene, goddess of the moon. It’s beautiful.”
My brain kicks into gear out of nowhere. Selene is the code name for Hunter. Taylor has a dedication to her “partner” permanently imprinted on her skin. I swallow the bad taste in my mouth and let it sink inside me, green and hot.
“Thank you,” Taylor says, but it sounds like an expletive.
Katrina chuckles. “I’m only making conversation, baby, relax.”
Taylor doesn’t appear moved, other than annoyed. “I do not need bedside manner. You may do your job.”
“If I were doing my job, you’d see a much more pleasurable bedside manner than this.”
“I wonder why Delilah didn’t send Jacqueline?” I ask loudly, slapping the note against my open palm. Years of practice keeps my voice disinterested, instead of betraying this inappropriate feeling of aggressive dominion for a woman who only started using my first name like eight hours ago.