16. Sixteen
A beam of sunlight is pelting me in the face, and I roll over with a groan, still trying to soak in the comfort of the warm covers surrounding me. I snuggle deeper in, wanting the lush mattress to swallow me whole, before I feel something firm pressing against my face.
I bolt upright, scanning the unfamiliar room around me. My sleep-bleary eyes struggle to take in every detail and sort out where I am as my heart races. The cream-colored walls, the sheets bunched between my legs, too many pillows, two of which have been flung to the wooden floor. Everything is too soft, too comfortable.
All at once everything comes back. I’m in Tucker’s room. In this house inhabited by strange men. In the woods. I’m laying in Tucker’s bed and it’s too comfortable for my own good, still wearing this stupid splint.
Carefully, I remove the wrappings around my wrist, running my fingers over the indents and taking a closer look at the deep purple bruising circling my wrist. The uneven splotches won’t be there for much longer, so I take it in, imagining what it would be like to heal at a normal rate. How long until I felt fine? Would the bones ache even after I healed? I flex my fingers and roll the joint around, it’s still tender but everything is where it should be. I toss the molded splint and the stretchy wrap aside. I don’t need it, as long as I keep from swinging my arm around and whacking it on anything, it should hold up just fine.
I grab the first two pieces of clothing off the top of the folded pile, now placed on the bedside table. The clothes feel so comfortable against my skin, kind even. If fabric can be called kind. Everything I’ve faced over the last sixteen years has been laced with threat, with malice, but here, I don’t feel that. I know I’m not entirely safe, and I can’t let the small comforts lull me into complacency, but I’ll be damned if I don’t accept this little bit of peace.
A few deep breaths are all it takes before I’m ready to face whatever might be waiting for me downstairs.
It’s completely silent as I descend the stairs, and the room feels empty when I cross the threshold. It’s a strange feeling to be left alone in a space that isn’t your own. Especially if the space is owned by a team of men who stole you away from hell.
I glance at the kitchen table, where I thought I was going to eat last night. Instead, it was the setting of an interrogation, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of eating after having to talk about the Tanks. As if on cue my stomach growls loudly enough to surprise even myself.
“There’s cereal in the cabinets, or you can make yourself something from the fridge,” a deep voice sounds from behind me. I whirl around, my heart pounding in my chest and my mind demanding to know where the threat is. Silas stands in the doorway to, presumably, his own room. A hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips in response to whatever string of curses I just let out.
What the hell is it with these guys? Why are they determined to scare the soul out of me any chance they get?
His eyes rake over the length of me then settle on my face, his features melting into the stoic expression he was wearing last night. I can’t help but scan him the same way that he did to me, my eyes greedily picking out every detail they can. He’s tall, so very tall and his frame is wide enough to conceal the majority of the room behind him. His hair is tied up, so I can’t get a good feel for the length of it, but it’s dark and a few wavy strands escape from the rest, flowing downward and framing his face. The sleeves of his grey flannel are rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned skin and wildly strong looking forearms, and he’s wearing a white tee underneath that stretches slightly across his chest.
It takes a moment for me to understand that the shirt I was swimming in, the one that’s now bloodied and resting in a pile on Tucker’s floor, is the same style as the one he’s wearing and he fills it out entirely.
I want to see more of him.
The thought catches me off guard and I force my gaze back up to his face, studying his dark brown eyes and his strong nose.
“Sorry about that.” The depth of his voice settles over me and suddenly I’m all too aware of how hard I’m breathing.
“No, it’s okay, I didn’t expect you to be here.” I’m still trying to catch my breath when he steps forward.
“Where did you expect me to be, Madeline?” My name on his lips, that assessing stare, the sheer mass of him, it”s all frying my brain. I just shake my head, not sure how to answer before he asks “Did you just wake up?”
“Yeah, a couple minutes ago. The sun was in my eyes.”
“Do you always sleep until…” he trails off, checking his watch, “one in the afternoon?”
His tone isn’t accusatory or judgmental. He just stands there quietly, unhurried and waiting for my answer. I still scan for his meaning, but I only find bland curiosity on his face.
I hold up my arm for him to see. “Only when I’m healing.”
He squints slightly at my purple wrist, and I have to look away from his eyes and the offensively thick eyelashes surrounding them.
“Should that be out of its splint?”
“It’s fine. I just need to be gentle with it. Tomorrow morning you’ll never be able to tell it was broken in the first place.”
He nods, like what I just said was a key piece of information, like he’s intent on figuring me out, but won’t ask all the questions to do so.
“Thank you for the clothes, by the way.”
“No problem.” He takes a couple more steps forward, and weirdly, I find I don’t know what to do with my hands. But rather than stopping, he steps around me to sit on the couch, bending forward to pick up a file from the coffee table in front of him.
Alright, end of conversation, I guess.
I walk over to the kitchen and start to look through the fridge, trying to remember any of the cooking I learned how to do over a decade ago. My stomach grumbles again as I scan all of the options, finally setting on scrambled eggs. Not a whole lot that you can screw up with that one, if I remember correctly.
“Pans?” I ask, turning to find Silas still focused on the papers in his hands.
“Left cabinet, and spices are above the range.” He looks over at me, assessing, and he seems to realize a moment before I do that I can’t actually reach the cabinet above the stove. Well, I can open the door, but anything inside would have to be strategically placed for me to grab onto. Without saying a word, he walks over to me, and I instinctively step away, his presence already setting those flutters off in my stomach. I can only make it half a step before my lower back presses up against the countertop.
“What do you want?”
“Huh?” He’s not too close to me, probably a good three feet away, but there’s an intensity about him that’s making it hard to think.
“What are you trying to make?”
“I was going to do scrambled eggs. I don’t really know how to cook anything else.”
I’m not sure why I added the last bit. My lack of cooking skills isn’t relevant, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes me want to divulge all my secrets, to turn myself inside out so he can see every bit of me and satisfy his curiosity.
Closer, he’s closer now.
When did he take another step forward?
I watch as his hand raises slowly, resting it against my hip. Fireworks go off inside of me, my heart pounding in every part of my body at that small bit of contact. Then he gently guides me out of the way, moving me just a couple feet to the left.
I watch him reach for the cabinet and pull out a number of little jars, then move to the pantry and gather other ingredients I struggle to remember the names of. My rapt attention wavers, self-doubt creeping in and locking my chest tight. There’s no way I know how to use so many spices, and I’m about to embarrass myself in front of him if I even try.
“Oh, no, that’s okay. I was just going to throw a couple of eggs and some salt in a pan.” I throw in a little chuckle, trying to mask the shame coursing through me with a little self-depreciation. Abject disapproval shows on his face for a second before he starts to lay everything out on the counter. “I really don’t need all that to make some eggs.”
“I know you don’t. Go sit.”
When I don’t move, he turns fully toward me. “You’re not eating salted eggs for a meal, especially not your first full meal in four days. Go sit.” He pauses for a second before adding “Please.”
That ‘please’ rattles around in my brain and something in my chest warms in response. I obey finally, taking a seat at the table, making sure to choose one of the chairs that would give me the best angle to watch him as he pulls something else from the pantry. An apron? He’s throwing on an honest to God apron right now? And he’s about to cook me a meal.
If I was going to ascribe this action to any of the men here, I would have chosen Tucker. Hell, I think I would have said Dane would be cooking for me before Silas. But no. It’s the one who, up until right now, I had never heard speak a word. He’s the one who’s going to feed me.
After a few minutes of him mixing and cutting and flipping, and whatever else cooks do, I interrupt him.
“Where are the others?”
“They’re out for the day; left early this morning.”
I pause, waiting for more information that, apparently, is never going to come if I don’t ask. He just continues moving around the kitchen with a confident grace I can’t help but envy.
“Where did they go?”
“Supply run. I couldn’t get everything we needed before I was called back yesterday.”
“Oh.” I pause, thinking. “Why did they call you back?”
This stops his movements, and he drops his head back as if he’s gathering strength. “I can’t remember. Something to do with someone waking up and firing a gun.” He turns slightly, and I can see he’s wearing his usual blank facial expression, but there’s definite amusement lighting his eyes.
God, I’m stupid.
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. It’s funny, plus I got to watch Dane haul you out of the woods. Pretty good day, really.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes before he turns and presents me with a huge plate of food, matching the one he’s made for himself.
Eggs, sausage, potatoes, toast… it’s not the fanciest meal ever, but my mouth waters like I was just presented with a feast fit for a queen. I was on the verge of drooling from the smell alone but seeing it all laid out has me outright ravenous.
“Eat it while it’s hot, Madeline.”
I don’t hesitate, or attempt to eat with any semblance of manners. I take a huge bite with as many of the different foods as I can get onto my fork. It tastes incredible. The food in the facility was never this good, never seasoned to perfection, and never made me want to cry at the first taste like this does.
My second bite forces an involuntary groan out of me.
“Glad you like it,” Silas says with a chuckle.
I’m half delirious at this point. Sure, my body can go for nearly forever without food, but my mind really suffers from it. Having good food for the first time in sixteen years… it might be the best experience of my life.
“I love it,” I mumble around a mouth full of potatoes, “please cook for me always, Silas.”
“Alright.”
I don’t look up at him, refusing to divert my focus from my meal, but his response sounds pleased, maybe even a little proud.