Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Zac
Emilia’s eyes are wide as she stares across the room at me. I don’t shut the door, just hold it open, standing beside it, attention on the fucking idiot beside her.
He looks familiar. Blond hair. Pale skin.
I frown, trying to place him. He’s not someone I’d ever hang out with—I can tell that from the preppy, neat haircut alone.
He doesn’t look like he’d say boo to a damn goose, yet here he is, cosying up to Emilia like he wouldn’t be strung up by the State for it.
And then recognition hits. Hard. Like a punch to the gut.
My rage triples, burning through me until it’s all I can feel. My chest tightens until I can’t draw a proper breath. A hard, hot coil of something ugly that makes my hands itch. My eyes snap back to Emilia. She’s already looking away, guilt flickering behind that defiant expression.
The boy glances at me like he’s got any right to. “I should go.”
“I think that would be best,” I snap.
“Lay off, Zac,” Emilia snaps, eyes hardening.
“There’s a couple of Enforcers patrolling the street,” I growl.
I’m not lying.
Her glare drops.
“I’ll see you later, Mils,” the idiot says, smiling at her before he inches past, careful not to touch me.
With one foot on the street, he shoots me a scowl, and the tightness inside my chest snaps into something feral. I slam the door before my fist meets his face, so hard that it vibrates the walls. Blood pounds in my ears and I turn slowly, my nails digging into my palms until the pain steadies me.
“I swear I will kill you myself, Emilia,” I say, low and steady. “Tell me that wasn’t the guy you were accused of fucking.”
She presses her lips together, crossing her arms across her chest. “We weren’t doing anything.”
The words land like a slap. I laugh, short and hard. “You’re a fucking joke, you know that?”
“Zac—”
“I have a right mind to report you to the damn State myself,” I snap. The threat hangs between us, heavier than a damn truck. Her jaw tightens, and her eyes flare with anger.
“Yeah? Do it, then,” she dares, loud and fierce. “Anything would be better than being shackled to you.”
Wrong answer, Emilia.
I step closer, erasing the space between us. “Want to try that again? Say something you actually mean?”
Her chin trembles. “Fuck you.”
Silence stretches, thick and charged as anger simmers beneath my skin. My eyes drag over her mouth as the words leave it, before lifting back to hers. She’s breathing harder now. So am I.
My voice comes out sharp, almost deadly. “If you don’t stop this fucking shit, I will make sure I’m here every moment you are, tie you to that damn bed that you love so much, and make sure you don’t end up getting us killed.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, Zac? I wasn’t doing anything. And either way, I have the right to do whatever the hell I want—”
A knock at the door slices through the room. Her sentence breaks mid-breath, eyes widening with fear. Her hands drop to fiddle with the hem of her top.
I lift a single finger and point, voice low and menacing. “If that’s pretty boy, I’m gonna knock his fucking teeth out.” I yank the door open, and the world narrows as my eyes fall on three uniformed men.
Fucking Enforcers.
My anger fizzles into a dying ember.
“Can we help you?” I snap.
“As State Enforcers, acting on behalf of Commander Elissa Germain, we’re here to conduct a home inspection,” the one in the middle says.
Something cold slides under my skin. I don’t look back at Emilia; I don’t need to.
I nod at the Enforcers, before retreating, one step at a time, until I’m on the other side of the room with her beside me.
They push into the living room, eyes sweeping the place, disgusting predators on the fucking prowl.
I reach out without asking and pull her towards me, coiling my arm around her waist until she’s flat against my chest, as far away from them as possible.
“Let’s make it quick then, yeah?” I snap over her head.
Two of the Enforcers are already poking around the room. One of them picks up Emilia’s book and starts rifling through the pages.
“Please can you confirm that you are Zachary and Emilia Hastings?” the short, dumpy one demands, pulling a clipboard from his shoulder bag.
“Yes,” I retort, voice tight.
Emilia trembles against me, fingers curled around my bicep, knuckles white, as though I’m her lifeline. The Enforcer’s glare snaps to her.
“Y-Yes,” she says quietly. “I’m Emilia.”
My jaw clenches as the Enforcer nods, staring at her for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drops, and he checks something on his clipboard before gesturing at the sofa.
“Take a seat. We shouldn’t be too long,” he says.
Without thinking, I step in front of Emilia, putting myself between her and them as I guide her towards the couch. She slides onto the seat, eyes locked on her lap. I sit beside her.
The other two move into the kitchen. Pots clatter and something bangs against the countertop. She flinches each time, and I feel her tremble as her purple leggings bump against my thigh. I plant my feet wider, ready to stand if I have to.
Carefully, I reach out, curling a finger around her wrist. She jumps, eyes widening, then relaxes the second she realises it’s me. My thumb finds the base of her palm, tracing tiny, steady circles, round, and round, and round...
The inspection drags on.
The Enforcers move through the house in their heavy boots, opening cupboards, flipping through drawers, occasionally murmuring to one another.
I leave my hand where it is, knuckles covering hers, trying to ground her.
Maybe myself, too.
Finally, the dumpy idiot steps back into the living room, flanked by the others. “We’re done,” he announces. I let go of Emilia and stand immediately, stance as wide as possible. My pulse hammers in my throat, but I keep my chin high, shoulders poised and ready.
The lead Enforcer tears a sheet from his clipboard before handing it to me. “Your home has been ranked as adequate, with improvements required.”
My jaw tightens. “Improvements?”
“The master bedroom does not appear to house both parties in this marriage.”
“Excuse me?” I snap.
“Upon inspection, we found only women’s clothing in that room. And”—he looks me up and down—“it doesn’t appear that you wear ladies’ clothes.” He pauses, trying to glance around me. Shifting, I block his view of the nervous blonde. “Plus,” he says coolly. “The room’s a mess.”
“She’s a girl. She has more shit than me,” I retort. “If she wants to spread out, she can. My stuff’s kept wherever else it fits. Doesn’t mean I’m not sleeping there.” I step forward, towards the Enforcer.
His sneer widens. “Don’t forget rule eight point one, boy.” His tone practically drips with fucking glee. “If we have reason to believe you are not committing to the marriage, we reserve the right to interrogate both of you. At Killmoor.”
The threat lands like a knife to the throat.
Emilia catches my sleeve with shaky fingers, small and desperate, and something hard and feral surges inside me.
Killmoor is the prison of horrors, the one that every torturous rumour centres around.
The old Whatton prison converted to a far worse place after the war.
A place the Enforcers made their playground.
Somewhere to drag their worst criminals—testing them, breaking them, doing things no one ever dares speak of aloud.
I’ve heard that those who return from Killmoor have blank eyes, voices that are never whole again, their minds a fucking mess. And the thought of them dragging Emilia there… it’s the only thing in the world that holds me back from wringing this bellend’s neck.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” I say, voice low, fists clenched at my sides.
He just clicks his pen and looks down at the clipboard. “It’s just a friendly reminder. As punishment, you’ve lost fifty percent of this week’s food rations.”
“Excuse me?”
“I would suggest you rectify the living situation before we return.” He gestures at the stairs with his damn pen. “We wouldn’t want anyone to suspect foul play at our next inspection.”
My body moves on instinct, taking a threatening step towards him. Emilia’s hand clamps around my bicep, tugging me back. Her body presses into my side.
“Zac,” she hisses.
I look down at her, at the paleness of her skin, the pleading in her eyes. She shakes her head.
“We’ll let ourselves out,” the Enforcer says, gesturing to the others and heading for the door.
As soon as it shuts, Emilia bolts for it, fingers fumbling with the lock like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Her back collapses against the wood, and she exhales. My head drops, my fists still curled tight, knuckles white.
“I’m… sorry.” Her voice is small. “I’m the reason we’ve lost food—”
“Don’t worry about that. I can sort it,” I cut her off, shaking my head.
“But…” she starts, faltering when I look up. My eyes meet hers—hers uncertain, mine still burning from the anger I can’t quite shake—and everything around us goes quiet.
“Don’t worry, Emilia,” I say, voice deep with promise. “I’ve got this.”
She swallows hard and gives me the faintest of nods. Tearing her gaze away, she glances around the room as if seeing it for the first time. I follow, eyes falling on the faint yellow stain of whiskey beside the stairs.
“How the fuck did they miss that?” I mutter.
A small, almost manic laugh slips through her lips, and she tips her head back against the door. “I’m surprised we didn’t get penalised for the mess in the kitchen. I left bread crumbs everywhere.”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Her shoulders drop, and slowly, she gives me a tired half-smile. “Fuck,” she echoes.
I’ve been sat on the back stoop, staring up at the cloudy sky, for longer than I care to admit. It’s windy today, clouds drifting by faster than I can count. I can’t help but wonder what they’ll see if they reach the wall. When they shift over, into the southern sector—
“Biscuit?”
Emilia appears at the back door, extending the blue packet towards me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, taking one.