Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Zac
The monthly meeting is as fucking dire as I knew it would be. Emilia sits beside me, knee bobbing up and down, boot tapping against the floor. Her knuckles are white around the edge of the bench, eyes panning over the Enforcers lining the room.
I place my hand on top of her knee and her face snaps to mine, eyes wide.
“Stop,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to her thigh. She follows, leg freezing, as though she’s only just realised she’s doing it.
Elissa Germain drones on about the inspections that have been carried out. The food rations and when most couples tend to collect them. She drags a couple I don’t know up on stage, congratulating them on their pregnancy, but I don’t clap with the rest of the room.
Instead, my teeth grind together, and I follow Emilia’s lead, analysing the corners of the room, only instead of being fearful of the Enforcers, I’m plotting their deaths in my head.
There’s a short woman who looks like her neck would snap in anything stronger than a breeze, so she’d be easy; a lanky blond who looks like he’d be prettier with a bullet to the face; the muscular, hulking man at the end however… he could be tricky.
Emilia suddenly stands, and I blink, spine straightening in an instant. The entire room is moving, low chatter starting up as everyone begins to leave their rows.
Thank fuck. It’s over.
I follow behind Emilia until we’re descending the steps into the old Market Square.
She doesn’t even spare me a glance, her face paling as it catches the Enforcers stationed outside; they’re armed and ready, eyes fanning over each of us as we leave.
Emilia’s shoulders tense and her head droops.
Even twenty feet past them, she still doesn’t look up, her shoulders rigid.
“Fuck this,” I mutter to myself. “Come on, blondie,” I snap. She looks at me, surprised. “We’re not going home.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just, come on,” I say.
She mutters under her breath—something derogatory, no doubt. Her strides quicken, following me through the square and down one of the small side streets.
“I really wanted to spend the day reading,” she grumbles behind me.
“Without me? Aren’t we supposed to be playing happy families?”
“I don’t know. You seem to be more of a fan of hide and fucking seek,” Emilia spits back.
A smirk spreads over my face at her fiery wit. “Well, you aren’t very good at finding me.”
“Alright. I’ll bite. Where do you go? When you run off in the evenings? When you leave hours before your work shift starts?”
I whirl around, frowning at her. “How do you—”
She smirks. “Rule two point three. I get a copy of your work schedule each week.”
Well, shit. Fair played. Fair fucking played, Emilia.
“Doesn’t me telling you where I go defeat the point of hide and seek?” I object.
She rolls her eyes. “We’re not playing a game.”
“That’s a shame.” I grin, watching as she grinds her jaw. It’s bad that I’m enjoying this. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop, though.
“Fuck this. I’m going home,” Emilia mutters, turning away.
“I have friends,” I blurt out. It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and I don’t even know why I say it; it’s not like I want her to stay with me like a damn puppy.
Fuck her. All I’m trying to do is help. I have no duty to her. No reason to care or need to explain myself.
And yet, the next thing I say is, “I go and see them.”
Her hair slips over her shoulder as she turns back to look at me. Her lips purse. “I have a hard time believing that you have friends.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because you’re intolerable.”
I scoff, crossing my arms across my chest. “You don’t know me well enough to cast that kind of judgement.”
“And whose fault is that?”
I just shift, before turning on my heel and continuing down the road. “Fair comment,” I mutter.
We walk the rest of the way in silence, weaving around the debris left behind after the war and ignoring the eerie emptiness of the streets.
We’re not far from the Safe House, and only twenty minutes from our house, when I walk up to a grey, hulking square building of dark stone.
I gently lift the barbed wire and dart out the way before a booby trap of chicken wire cuts into my ankles. Once safe, I haul open the door beyond.
Behind me, Emilia is frozen, wide eyed, her lips parted.
“Come on,” I say, a smirk threatening to spread across my lips. She hesitates for a moment, before following me inside.
“What are we doing here?” she asks, glancing around the empty factory floor.
“You’re scared of the Enforcers, yes?” I ask as I shut the door behind us.
“Who isn’t?”
“Alright. But you’re petrified. Can’t look them in the eye?”
“Just trying to lay low,” she murmurs.
“That’s good,” I reply. “But what happens when they set their sights on you?”
“I—”
“When they decide you’re the one who’s going to face their punishment that day?”
“I…” she trails off, swallowing before a small shiver wracks her body.
“You don’t know how to fight back,” I comment.
Her eyes shoot to mine. “If I did that, the punishment would be worse.”
“Maybe. Depends on the situation.”
“Zac—”
“Just hear me out.”
“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth.
“I want to teach you how to defend yourself,” I say.
“You do?” she exclaims, brows lifting in shock.
I’m shocked, too; can’t quite believe I’m here myself. I think even Claudia’s mouth would drop if she saw I’ve brought Emilia here.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “If they decide one day that you’ve pissed them off too much, what’re you going to do? Let them kill you?”
“Of course not.”
I cock my head. “No? So how will you stop them?”
“I… I’d try and—”
“You’d do nothing.” I smirk. “Right now, you’re useless against anyone, not just Enforcers.” I’m trying to bait her, to fire up all cylinders that I know simmer inside her, to bring out the fight that the Enforcers had all but extinguished during her time in The Cell.
“I am not!” Emilia snaps.
“Alright.” I shrug, voice harsh. “Hit me.”
“What?”
“Do it. Hit me.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Of course you’re not. Because you’re weak. Na?ve. An absolute bloody liability. An immature fucking girl who fucks preppy boys and wears stupid heels. An idiot who’s going to get us killed—”
A loosely balled up fist slams into my cheek.
I barely flinch, but Emilia grimaces, shaking her fist before quickly trying again with her other hand.
Rubbish.
“Do you see?” I snap. She lifts the first fist once more, and my arm darts out, hand curling around her forearm. I clutch it tightly, and she snarls, angrily trying to yank it free. “This is why you need to learn,” I say harshly before roughly shoving her away.
She stumbles in her ridiculous heels. Turning away, I stride to the other end of the room, towards a sparring mat in the corner.
“What is this place?” she breathes out behind me.
“Come on,” I snap, whirling back to face her as I reach the mat. “You’re not leaving until you can form a half decent fist.”
She bristles. “Nothing wrong with what I did.”
“Sure,” I mock with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. Lifting my hand, I make a fist in front of her face. “If you do this in a fight, you’ll break your thumb.”
She glowers for half a minute, then says, “Why do I even need to learn? This won’t help me.”
“You need to be able to protect yourself against what’s to come,” I say, voice gruff.
“What the fuck does that mean? An Enforcer would shoot me if I punched them—”
“Then don’t get caught,” I snap. “I’m trying to help you, Emilia.”
Her lips purse. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Such a fucking brat,” I curse under my breath.
“I am not.” She scowls as she finally steps onto the mat, and I reach out to lightly shove her. Because of the ridiculous footwear, she falls back, hitting the mat with a sound that’s half pain, half surprise. She scrambles onto her elbows, eyes wide. “What the—”
“Take off those fucking boots before we start.”
She glares up at me with malice that could kill, but I just stare back, and eventually, she kicks off the boots. I drag the training dummy across the floor, the metal scraping against the concrete floor.
When she stands, her stance is wrong, her fists so loose that she may as well be a member of the Royal family waving goodbye.
I correct her wrists, adjust her elbows, and push her shoulders back until she no longer looks like someone waiting for a hug, and more like someone waiting for the opportunity to retaliate.
Facing the dummy, I show her how to throw a punch by demonstrating with quick strikes of my own, telling her where to aim—jaw, gut, neck.
She mimics me, clumsy at first, then with more confidence, more control, until slowly, her fists start connecting, solid and efficient.
I force her to continue until sweat plasters her hair against her temples.
Diving into one of the cupboards, I grab two bottles of water before tossing one her way. She catches it, chest still heaving.
She stares at the bottle in disbelief. “Seriously… what is this place?”
I shrug, leaning against the wall and taking a drink. “A safe space. You tell anyone about it and I’ll kill you myself.”
Her head tilts and her eyes twinkle in the same way they always do when she’s about to piss me off.
“Not for long. I’m gonna be better at this than you in no time,” she says.
My lips twitch, wanting to embrace the amusement of her words, but I’m still stuck on the threat she might pose.
Her eyes drop, and a crease appears between her brows.
“I won’t tell anyone,” she says, tone serious and steady, with a depth I’ve never heard from her before.
She’s telling the truth.
I nod, and she leans back, taking a drink before doing the bottle back up. She falls against the mat, staring up at the pipes that run along the ceiling.
“What did you get put in The Cell for? The… other times?” I ask, toying with the lid of my bottle.