Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Emilia
The sun beats down, heavy and relentless, and the sweet smell of strawberries fills the air. My fingers are already stained red as I twist another berry free.
I glance down at the small fruit, glistening in the light… bright, juicy, and utterly tempting. My mouth waters.
No.
I force myself to remember last year; the agony of the baton striking the backs of my knees, the humiliation of being dragged away in front of everyone, driven to the centre of the city and thrown in The Cell.
I let the berry fall into the wicker basket at my knees. My stomach growls, but I keep moving—grabbing, twisting, dropping, and repeating.
Lifting my head, I brush a stray hair out of my face. On the other side of the bush, a flash of blonde catches the light. She’s bent down to reach the berries deep inside, but when she straightens, our eyes meet.
Blue against blue.
Kayla.
For a moment, I forget to breathe. We haven’t spoken since before the war. Back then, I hated her. Hatred was easy then; it didn’t really mean anything.
She always got perfect marks, had perfectly shiny hair. She was the kind of girl all the teachers adored. And even though she wasn’t quite as popular as me with the students… she was still the kind of girl Rayden adored.
That life feels so far away these days, like it never happened.
Our eyes lock, hers emotionless before they quickly soften. She swallows, unsure how to deal with me, before she tears her gaze away, pretending to inspect the fruit in her hand. Fine by me.
I bend back down, shoving the next handful of berries into my basket.
A harsh shout cuts through the air.
Every head snaps up, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Kayla do the same. I straighten, shielding my eyes from the sun as I lock onto movement near the barn. Two men—both Enforcers—are shouting, one holding the other by the collar of their dark uniform, faces twisted with rage.
“You had one job!” the first bellows. “One fucking job, and now they’re gone!”
The other struggles in his grip, red-faced, spitting out words I can’t hear. “The guns were delivered two days ago,” the first snarls. “So where the hell are they now?”
They hit the ground in a cloud of dust, a chaotic flash of flying fists and boots. No one moves, but no one looks away, either. The clack of panicked heels cuts through the bedlam, Engleberry appearing from nowhere, her black trousers spotless, hair tied into a perfect twist.
“Enough!” she snaps, voice shrill enough to slice through the roars and grunts. “You’ll both answer to Commander Germain if you don’t stop this instant!” Neither man listens, and it takes four more Enforcers to haul them apart, each one barking orders and dragging them in opposite directions.
The one who was attacked is bleeding, his nose crooked. The other just paces, muttering under his breath.
Engleberry smooths her pressed red jacket, straightening her cuffs before turning to the rest of us. Her face is pale, but her red lipstick is still perfect.
“What are you all staring at?” she screeches. “Back to work! Now!”
The field jolts into motion. Heads bow. Strawberries fall into baskets.
If it had been one of us fighting, there’d be no pulling us apart. No warning. Just fists and batons and blood.
And a hole in the fields for one of us to dig.
The sofa creaks beneath me as I shift for what must be the twentieth time. The book lies open in my lap, the same line staring up at me, thumb gripping the edge of the page even though I’m not ready to turn it.
Since sitting down, I haven’t managed to read past the first twenty pages.
This evening, I can’t seem to sit still.
Every sound from beyond the door makes my head snap towards it. A voice. The wind. Each time, I think it’s Zachary.
But it’s not.
I exhale and unfold my legs from the sofa.
“What’s wrong with you?” I mutter to myself.
Book abandoned, I shuffle to the fireplace, fingers running over the smooth mantel, analysing every inch of the room.
The sun sinks, soon bathing the room in a deep orange glow before fading to grey. Shadows creep up the walls, and still, there’s no sound from the door.
He’s far later than yesterday.
And once the clock strikes ten, and he’s later than he was the day before that, I give in.
Reluctantly, I open the kitchen cupboards, staring at the food for longer than any competent person would.
There’s rice again— No. One slice of ham. A slither of cheese. Jam. Bread. One steak.
My chest tightens as I pull the bread towards me.
I’m not doing this for him. It’s just polite. He made dinner last night. I can… try to return the favour. Look at me, being all fair and accommodating.
Steak hisses in the pan and smoke curls around it. I flip it too late, wincing at the blackened edges. The smell isn’t awful, though.
It’s definitely better than the rice.
I slice the bread, smacking it into a messy looking sandwich, and stand there, waiting.
He’ll come back soon.
The minutes stretch. I keep glancing at the front door through the doorframe, listening for keys, or that annoyed tone of his.
Nothing.
I cave before my sandwich goes cold.
Leaning against the counter, I take a bite. It’s dry, tough, and burnt at the edges, but it’s food. I chew slowly, eyes refusing to leave the doorway.
It’s stupid—sitting here waiting like some kind of lost goddamn dog—but the thought of him walking in and me just… eating without offering anything feels wrong.
By the time I’m done, the house feels even quieter.
I wash my plate and the pan, before looking at the sandwich I made for him, untouched on the counter. The smell of burnt meat hangs in the air.
Hesitantly, I wrap it in a towel.
Maybe he’s just working late. Maybe he’ll be back by midnight.
I set it down carefully, then drift back to the sofa.
My book lies waiting on the seat. I pick it up, trying to read, but the words are blurred. My eyes droop, and my head drops, shoulders relaxing into the cushions.
When my alarm blares all the way from upstairs, I jolt upright, heart hammering.
My book is on the floor, and my body aches from where I slept twisted up in the armchair. Early sunlight seeps through the curtains. For a moment, I don’t move, a groan leaving my lips as my hands drag down my face.
Slowly, I stand, padding into the kitchen.
The wrapped sandwich sits exactly where I left it, cold and untouched.
He didn’t come home.
Maybe there’s a reason. Maybe the State is involved…
Fucking idiot.
After the way he talks to me, his abhorrent attitude, I know. He chose not to come home.
The pathetic sandwich stares mockingly at me. A waste of food, of effort, of me. My jaw tightens.
What did I expect? That he’d walk in and nod? Maybe even thank me?
I scowl at the mound on the counter before scoffing and leaving it behind. I’m already fed up with this shit, and it’s only day fucking three.