Chapter Thirteen
I WAS WRONG—THIS ROOM is not a prison. No cell bars, no stone floors, no exposed toilet in the corner of the room. I have a bed. A real bed. I pinch the skin on my hand to remind myself that my wildest dreams have not come true. Though I slept on a shoddy sofa back in Egal, I’d rather be there.
I’d rather be there. I’d rather be there.
Back aching, feet wedged between the cushions to stay warm.
I’d rather be there.
Grandma’s crinkly voice barges into my head. Don’t be a martyr, Dakota, she says. Be grateful for the damn bed. Tuck in and sleep.
Grandma, as always, is correct.
I flop on the bed and sink into the plush mattress.
Plush by my standards. Clouds of dust swirl into the air and sprinkle down on me like snow.
It gets cold in the South, certainly, but never cold enough to snow—not anymore.
Is it easier to outrun zombies in northern states, where thick snow and black ice coat the ground?
Or has the frost completely screwed them, killing off any remaining plants and trees?
I close my eyes and imagine myself floating down a river. Light as a feather, as the current carries me gently downstream.
I have to pee.
I sit up and glance around the room, absolving the bed of my undivided attention.
I register my surroundings: one window, a ticking clock, a framed collage, and a large mirror perched atop the dresser.
A single crack slithers across the mirror’s unpolished surface.
I sit up taller. And look at myself. And gasp.
My long hair is tangled and twisted in ways I didn’t know possible. Half of my ponytail is a greasy, matted wad. Birds could lay eggs in the nest atop my head. Deep circles are painted below my eyes, my cheeks are sunken and white, and my lips are chapped.
I lower my pants and spin around to inspect my butt. There it is. A purple splotch right above my coin slot. I yank up my pants and smooth out my hair.
I wish I looked pretty. I wish I could feather my lashes with mascara and rosy my cheeks with blush and smear on Zara’s bright red lipstick.
And though I imagine Jasper’s reaction to my cleaned-up face, I refuse to admit my newfound desire is because of him.
He may be a self-proclaimed Nice Guy and about my age and attractive, but he is my captor.
No, certainly my desire to look pretty stems from Peter’s actions.
My subconscious must want to prove to Peter that I am beautiful, that I was enough for him.
Even the thought feels wrong. I don’t care how pretty Peter thinks I am.
I meander to the window. Hazy light streams in through an opaque cream curtain, leaving pale yellow shadows on the floor.
I peel back the curtain and gasp. A small creek babbles just yards from the house, and behind it, the sun slowly sinks behind a line of leafless, bent trees.
I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to wash off in that creek.
And pee, assuming Jasper’s plumbing doesn’t work.
I wrench open the window and smile despite myself. I can do anything I want. After all, Jasper said I’m not a prisoner.
Jasper jogs down an overgrown path to the creek. He musses his brown hair and bends down to touch the water. Satisfied with the temperature, he rips off his boots, shirt, and—I should look away, but I don’t—his pants.
That is the tightest, most muscular ass I’ve ever seen.
Jasper wades into the creek. I catch sight of the faintest smile when he glances up at the emerging moon. I should stop spying on him. I should be the bigger person. But he shot a blow dart in my neck, so who am I to be the morality police? I don’t feel bad about invading his privacy.
He interlaces his fingers and stretches toward the sky, revealing his entire front side.
Okay, maybe I feel a little bad.
When Jasper is up to his calves in water, he lowers himself and sinks under the surface. I bring my nose to my armpit and sniff.
Me next.
For the next ten minutes, I pace around the room, close and open the curtain, and then pace some more.
A bath sounds better than when Peter snuck me a stale pack of M sure, talks of war made the daily news; sure, my father made no attempt to contact his three children despite incessant calling and calling and the number you have reached is no longer in service.
The world wasn’t so weighty back then. Survival was a given. Not a day went by that I didn’t brush my hair or gloss my lips or apply deodorant. Not a day went by without Bunny or Grandma or a phone call with West. Not a day went by alone.
Alone.
Bathing in a creek behind a kidnapper’s house.
The moment the sun tucks itself in for the night, my bath becomes a freezing embrace.
Goose bumps prickling my arms and legs. My chattering teeth echo in my ears.
Shivering, I pull myself out of the creek and study the moon.
The glowing orb sits fat and happy above the trees.
Full enough to bring out the werewolves. Full enough to bring out—
Jasper.
Jasper jogs out from the woods and stops in his tracks when he sees me. His jaw drops open.
“Close your eyes!” I scream and yank my clothes off the ground.
Jasper whips his hands over his face, then realizes he can just turn around.
“What are you doing out here?” he yells at the wall of trees. “Naked?”
“I saw you naked,” I say. I probably shouldn’t admit that. “And I smelled like a trash can.” I probably shouldn’t admit that, either.
Jasper turns around.
I scream, “Hey! No peeking, perv!”
“Hurry up and get dressed, then!”
“Working on it!”
I pull my clothes off the ground and huff before sliding dry jeans over my wet legs. I hoist my shirt up and over, but my head gets caught in the opening.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
“What was that? Did you say you’re done?”
“Didn’t your mother teach you patience is a virtue?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Why’s that?” I finally get the shirt over my head. “I’m dressed.”
Jasper turns around. “She died before she had the chance.”
“Oh,” I say.
If telling me that was an attempt to get me to feel bad for him, well . . . shit. I fear it may have worked.
Jasper stares at me from across the creek and runs a hand through his damp hair. The unkempt look suits him.
Shaking away my thoughts, I say, “It’s just a creek. Go on, cross it. I don’t bite. I’m not convinced you don’t bite, but . . .”
Even as I say the words, I know the dialogue’s outlived its shelf life. If he were going to eat me, he’d have me on a spit by now.
Jasper crosses the creek, his boots sloshing in the water. He steps up onto the bed, towering over me. There’s at least a foot difference between our heights.
I square my shoulders. “Fine. You’re not a cannibal, but that doesn’t mean you’re a nice guy. You kidnapped me. You shot me with a blow dart, for fuck’s sake!”
“I can show you how to use one sometime.”