Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Emilia
Aloud clatter tears me awake.
I shoot upright, heart pounding. The room blurs into focus as I claw to get free of the duvet, my breaths coming in shallow, panicked bursts.
For a second, I’m back in The Cell, cold concrete pressing into my spine, the stench of damp and iron and piss in the air, as Enforcers laughter echoes from beyond the door.
I scramble off the bed, bare feet hitting carpet as my fingers reach under the other pillow for the kitchen knife I brought upstairs last night. My hands don’t stop trembling as I yank it free and tug the bedroom door open.
My chest tightens, pulse thundering in my throat as I cautiously descend the stairs, knife raised in front of me. My eyes ping from corner to corner, searching for the cause of the noise.
Zachary steps into the living room, a slice of bread wedged between his teeth.
For one infuriating second, he freezes when he sees me. Then he reaches up and plucks the toast from his mouth, smirking as if the whole thing is a joke.
“And what were you going to do with that?” he drawls, tone amused as his gaze drops to the blade.
“Stab you,” I snap.
The world beyond the living room window is still dark; it’s before sunrise.
Zachary laughs, but something tells me it’s entirely fake. “Sure, blondie. Whatever you want to tell yourself.” His grin makes my jaw ache.
I want, with a desire that almost overwhelms me, to march over and prove him wrong. To drive the knife into him, somewhere painful but non-lethal, so that he won’t look at me the same way ever again—like I’m an innocent, na?ve fucking idiot.
He ducks down, pulling on a pair of heavy black boots. Tearing my eyes away from his forearms flexing as he laces the boots, I zero in on the couch. There’s a crumpled blue blanket at one end, and a decorative cream pillow at the other.
Zachary grabs his key off the side table, shoves it into the back pocket of his black jeans, and strides to the door. It swings open, the cold morning air hitting my face.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
He pauses for half a second, and I think he’s going to look back, but he doesn’t.
His response is sharp and gruff. “Work.”
He leaves, the door slamming behind him so loudly that it knocks the adrenaline from my body.
My knees wobble, and I lower the blade, sinking to the stairs as rage and fear seep down to where I bury every fierce, gut-wrenching emotion; there’s no room—no time—in this life to deal with them.
For a long moment all I can do is stare at where he stood, my heart pounding.
By the time I turn up at the farm, slide my feet into trainers, and yank my overalls over my own clothes, I’m shattered. Absolutely and utterly knackered.
Leaving the barn with the others, the smell of damp earth and manure fills my lungs.
Sweat gathers on the back of my neck as I work, trowel digging into the soil, planting, pulling, carrying, loading…
anything they ask of me. Engleberry’s voice cuts through the rows every now and again, sharp and bitter as she barks out orders.
I keep my head down, heart lurching whenever she’s close by.
By lunch, my nails are laden with dirt. I head back to the barn, grabbing my food and slouching onto a metal pail to eat. I fold the slice of bread and ham in half, taking a bite and chewing slowly to extend my break.
No one talks.
No one dares.
The minute I collect the final crumb from the paper with my finger, a whistle blows. The Enforcer points at me. Sighing, I force myself to stand, legs stiff. Discarding the paper bag, I head back to the fields.
When dusk falls, I stumble home, every muscle aching, every inch of me sticky with sweat. Upstairs, I run a bath until steam fogs the mirror, watching it fill with disbelief. Good fucking riddance to Grafton House’s communal showers.
I don’t want to believe it, don’t want to think it—but being partnered off does appear to have a few perks.
I lower myself into the warm, soapy water, groaning as it reaches the ache in my legs. Sinking beneath the surface, my long hair fans out around me, and the water quickly turns black with dirt. Eyes closed, I exhale.
Fucking monotony.
Every day is the goddamn same. An endless loop of labour and boredom and threats.
This is what I’m going to be doing every day until I die.
My head sinks beneath the surface, the world muffling.
And there, with no one to hear me, I scream.
I’m lying in bed, tucked under the green duvet, finger tracing the art on my book cover when the door slams downstairs. I jolt, eyes widening as my breath catches. For a moment, I’m frozen, listening hard, but unlike this morning, I don’t move.
I don’t go downstairs.
I tell myself it’s just Zachary.
Just Zachary.
Back from work—whatever work is.
His day’s longer than mine—I’ve been home for at least two hours.
The sun is low, but golden rays still stream through the windows.
A cupboard door is being opened below, a dish scraped, the bin lid closed.
I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing, whether he’s making himself dinner or just tearing the place apart.
Whether his cooking skills are worse than mine…
My own pasta had been tasteless and bland, but the sliced cheese I’d scattered over the top made it more than edible.
He could be worse at cooking than me.
I should go down. Ask if he’s alright. If he needs help.
I should.
But as the noises fade to slower, calmer clatters, I sink back into the pillow. My fingers tighten around my book and I open it, forcing my eyes over the words.
And I don’t go downstairs.
My rice is overcooked. It’s a sludgy, grotesque looking mess, congealed into something between glue and porridge. I grimace as it slops from the saucepan into my bowl.
“Fan-fucking-tastic,” I grumble under my breath.
The pan clatters back on the hob, and I snatch the bowl and a spoon, retreating to the living room and collapsing to the armchair, folding my legs beneath me. The first bite makes me wince. Mushy, sticky and tasteless. Still, I force it down.
A soft scrape comes from the door, and I freeze mid-chew, stomach dropping.
It’s a key.
My eyes dart to it as the handle depresses.
I hadn’t woken when Zachary left this morning, only rousing when my own alarm blared, cursing as I dragged myself from the cosy sheets to trudge to the fields.
The door swings open.
Zachary steps inside, tall and broad, dull sunlight filling the space around his frame.
For a heartbeat, I just stare, spoon frozen halfway to my lips.
After yesterday, I didn’t even consider the possibility that he could be back earlier.
My work shifts are the same every day—six until four in spring and summer; eight until five in autumn and winter. His—apparently—are not.
Zachary’s brown eyes meet mine as he closes the door. A smirk pulls at the edges of his lips. “See something you like?”
My eyes roll and I focus my gaze back to the mush in my bowl, scooping a heaped spoonful and forcing it into my mouth, fighting back a grimace.
He drops his duffel to the floor with a thud and heads to the kitchen before faltering mid-step.
“What the hell are you eating?”
I struggle to swallow the sludge sticking to my throat. “Rice.”
“That’s…rice?”
It was.
I glare at him.
“What did you do to it?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I drag the spoon through the sloppy mess and lift it to my lips, only for the bowl to be ripped from my hands. I jump, and rice slops onto my joggers in thick, wet clumps.
“Hey!” I snap.
“You’re not eating that.”
I bolt upright. “Yes, I am.”
“Sit the fuck down. I’ll make us something.”
“I don’t need you to make me anything,” I retort, trailing after him, into the kitchen.
“Clearly,” he mutters, scraping the contents of my bowl into the bin.
“Stop! We don’t have enough rations for that!”
“Then you clearly shouldn’t have tried to cook in the first place.”
“Fuck you.”
“Mature,” he mutters under his breath before his tone sharpens. “Seriously. I’m making myself dinner anyway; you may as well have something edible.”
I hover in the doorway, jaw tight, watching him move like he owns the place—cupboards open and close, ingredients are mixed, every action speedy and efficient. The smell of steak and oil soon fills the air, warm and delicious.
Not even the promise of a Double Decker would get me to admit out loud how good it smells, so when my stomach growls, loud and traitorous, I retreat to the armchair, arms folded over my chest.
I try not to listen to the hiss of the pan, the clatter of dishes… He knows what he’s doing.
Ten minutes later, Zac steps into the room, two steaming bowls in hand.
“Here.”
The bowl of rice—nicely cooked this time—is topped with strips of beef, a small trickle of white sauce drizzled over the top. What he even used to construct this is utterly beyond me.
I dig the spoon into the rice and meat, taking a bite.
I nearly moan at the taste. It’s easily one of the best things I’ve had since the war.
“How did you…” The words start to slip out before I trail off. “Forget it.”
He settles onto the edge of the sofa, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ve been cooking for years,” he says before taking a bite.
My mind reels at his words.
“How?” I ask, but then shake my head. “Isn’t Brook House…” I trail off, knowing without saying that it’s the same as the girls’ house. Rayden and Sam told me as much. I try again, “Grafton’s kitchen is always locked up tight when it’s not mealtime.”
His eyes meet mine, lighter than I’ve seen before. “I have my ways.” His attention returns to the bowl.
Slowly, I chew. “Do you cook… for the State?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “I mean, as your… job.”
“No.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can think to say. “Thank you… for this.”
He grunts, shovelling food into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten all day. I watch for a moment, then drop my eyes. My stomach practically purrs at the hot, perfectly seasoned food, and before I know it, the bowl’s empty.
Zachary stands without a word, striding over and holding out his hand.
“Oh, no, I can do it,” I say quickly, but he plucks the bowl from my grip before I can act, disappearing into the kitchen.
Well, excuse me for trying to be nice.
My jaw locks.
I push to my feet, ignoring the faint ache in my legs as I step into the kitchen.
The bowls clatter into the sink, followed by the pan. He turns the tap on with unnecessary force before roughly rolling up his sleeves, forearms flexing under the spray, and that’s when I see it.
Where one of his sleeves has been shoved higher, a sliver of black ink shows just above his right elbow before disappearing beneath the sleeve of his dark top. The strokes are intricate, all sharp lines and angles that I can’t quite make any sense of with only an inch on show.
It’s mesmerising.
And utterly defiant for someone living under the State’s rule.
My breath hitches before I can stop it. Getting tattoos is illegal now, the practice outlawed; only those who had them before the war are pardoned.
The small amount of ink suits him—sharp, dark, and dangerous—and I can’t look away. My gaze fixates, and something in my chest tightens, an unwanted pulse of warmth that makes me tear my eyes away.
I want to see the rest. To know how far the ink travels up his arm—
Blinking, I look at the dirty bowl in his hand.
‘I’ll wash them,’ I say again, sharper this time. He doesn’t so much as glance at me. “Zachary,” I snap, stepping closer. I reach out to shove his arm aside, but he’s solid and unmoving, his shoulders tense. “I said I’ll do it,” I hiss, pushing harder.
This time, he relents. His eyes flick to mine, dark and unreadable.
Then, he exhales through his nose. “Thanks,” he mutters.
It’s only when he goes to step back from the sink that I realise how close we are. Enough that I feel the warmth radiating from him and smell the faint trace of oil on his clothes. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then his face hardens, and he retreats into the living room, taking every ounce of warmth with him. A small shiver spreads through my chest as I turn back to the sink. In the window, my reflection stares back, uneasy and cautious.
Maybe… just maybe… Zachary and I could, one day, be civil.