Chapter 13 #2
It’s impossible to escape their control.
That sentry in our living room is no less of an invasion of privacy than the camera mounted above our screen.
She is a whip that the Guardians wield to make sure we stay in line, and for the first time in my life, I’m wondering what that line actually looks like.
Is it really just the Wall that contains us, or have they molded us into cages so tight, there’s no room to breathe?
Malcolm is actually trembling as he tosses his shirt over his head, revealing the soft planes of his pale chest. It’s a chest I’ve seen so many times before, but it feels different, seeing him undress now.
Before our conversation a few days ago, we were still under the illusion that we might grow into wanting each other.
Now, this is just an assault on our bodily autonomy.
A mockery of the small choice we gave ourselves permission to make.
I watch Malcolm begin to unbuckle his pants when a sudden idea hits me square in the chest.
What if we could still dupe them?
These bodies are ours. I won’t let anyone else decide what to do with them.
“Stop,” I whisper, throwing out a palm and hitting Malcolm in the chest. He freezes in place, and his eyes follow me as I make my way to our shared bed, crawling up to the metal headboard with my cloak still fluttering around me.
I curl my fingertips around two metal arches, as if I’m gripping a pair of horns.
Then I begin to rock in place.
The headboard hits the wall. Bump. Bump. Bump. The floor beneath us creaks. They’re sounds I’ve heard over and over for the past six months, like the heartbeat of my dissatisfaction. I look over my shoulder to find that Malcolm’s jaw has actually dropped open.
It’s just a soft thump, but the vibrations travel through the thin walls.
“C’mon,” I whisper. “Help me.”
He stays rooted to the spot for another few seconds before he shakes his head and crawls onto the bed next to me. Then he takes hold of the headboard and rocks, too.
The bump, bump, bump against the wall increases in its fervor. I swear to all Guardians, we’ve never made our bed rock like this while having real sex before, but I find a laugh crawling up my throat as we increase our vigorous movements in unison.
“Groan a little bit,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.
“What?”
“You know, the sound you make when you’re getting into it.”
He pulls a horrified expression, so I take the opportunity to let go of the headboard with one hand, grab a pillow beneath me, and smash it across his face.
“Ugh.” His muffled grunt is perfect, and I hit him again. “Ugh.”
“That’s it!” I hiss. “You’re doing great.”
“You’ve got to be kidding—ugh,” he cuts himself off as my pillow catches him again.
I grin. “Have fun with it.”
Now I’m actively clamping down on the laugh in my mouth at the look he gives me in return.
It’s exasperation and playfulness all in one, something I’ve never seen on his face before.
It almost feels like a privilege to witness it.
This is probably the most fun I’ve ever had with him, no orgasms required.
Malcolm takes advantage of my pause to snag his own pillow and whip it across my face before I can hit him again.
I shriek, more out of surprise than anything else.
The soft, fluffy thing does little more than fuel a sense of competition within me, and soon we’re both pummeling each other with our pillows, turning our laughs into forced grunts and moans.
I think I might hear footsteps outside our room, followed by the opening and shutting of the front door, but we don’t stop our pretending, even after the sentry leaves.
The camera is still on, after all, recording every sound.
Finally, I whack Malcolm across the face so hard, he falls sideways onto the rest of the bed.
I slump down next to him, breathing heavily as sweat beads against my skin.
“Good work, partner.” I lift up a hand. He shakes his head, his lips pinched in a suppressed smile, but slaps my palm anyway.
“Yeah. Good work.”
I can still feel the three forbidden objects pressing into me from my cloak pocket, but I don’t dare shed it now, even to cool down. As soon as I’m sure the sentry is long gone, I’ll sneak them all into my own personal room and figure out what to do with them there.
“Saskia?”
I open my eyes. “Yeah?”
Malcolm turns his head toward me, his smile fading. “I… I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Hm?” My heart just calmed down, but now it begins to drum up against my ribs again.
“All the questions about the Dark Days. The deal we made. Now this argument with your coworker and this sentry interrogating you. I know you’re up to something. I just can’t think of what it could possibly be.”
The way he says that has me swallowing thickly. At this point, I doubt he would turn me in, but I’m also not sure he’d want to know the details of what I’m hiding—both in my pockets and in my heart.
What better way to know than to ask him, then?
“Do you want me to tell you?” I whisper. “What I’m up to, I mean?”
He blinks at me, surprise flicking through the rapid movements.
“It’s your choice,” I say when he continues to gawk at me.
“My choice?”
“Yes.”
It’s sad that so many choices have been taken from him that Malcolm looks positively awestruck at the possibility.
“It feels good, huh?” I sigh. “To have a choice.”
His eyes stick to mine with a raw and vulnerable look, like he wishes he could make a thousand more, before he turns his gaze back to the ceiling, concentration furrowing his forehead as he thinks about it.
“No,” he says finally. “Don’t tell me unless your life is in real danger. If your life is in danger, then I want to know. But not otherwise.”
Now it’s my turn to blink at him. I don’t think I could ever view Malcolm in a romantic way, but his words are tugging on my heartstrings in an entirely different manner.
“You’d put your own life at risk to help me if mine were in danger?”
The concept is a new, strange one. There are no Cardinal Rules saying you have to lay your life down for someone you love. Nothing that could force anyone into that kind of willing sacrifice for someone other than a Guardian.
Malcolm’s smile turns rather somber, but he nods.
“What else are friends for?”
Alone in my own room now, I slip the key from my pocket first.
It’s heavier than I think most keys would weigh, but I’ve never actually had to lock anything, so I’m not entirely sure.
This one looks ancient, with two twirling pieces that merge at the top of the bow, reminding me of a heart.
There’s so many questions sprouting like weeds in my head again: did it really belong to the Guardians, or someone else?
Do they realize it’s missing? How did Diggory even know where to steal it from?
I push those away and slide open the drawer of my dresser. The key makes a heavy clunk sound when I place it toward the back. I’m going to have to find a better hiding spot because Rosalyn would have found it within a few minutes tops if she’d decided to search our housing unit.
Next, I pull out the mirror.
The handle is warm from being buried in my cloak and pressed against my body for more than an hour.
I can’t bring myself to turn it over yet and lay eyes on that silvery surface again. But the gold back and handle are beautiful. Its intricate etchings swirl in a pattern of flowers and vines inside the oval shape.
I place it face down on the top of the dresser before rummaging in my pocket again.
My fingertips could find the necklace on their own, because the electricity is like a beacon that I can feel even before I wrap my hand around the chain and hold it up in front of my face.
It doesn’t scare me anymore. Instead, I feel an anticipation more akin to excitement. The satisfaction you get when you learn something, master it. Because your curiosity drove you to grow.
Hurriedly, I remove my cloak, and as soon as the pendent slithers down my sternum and rests above my heart, I feel the connection alight.
Lucan. I finally allow myself to taste his name for the first time.
When he doesn’t answer at first, my first thought flickers nervously, but I take a steadying breath and repeat myself with conviction.
I found a mirror, Lucan.
He might be the Monster—and also an asshole—but he also has a name. A personality. A heartbeat of his own.
And that heartbeat crashes into me like a waterfall as his presence suddenly latches onto mine.
Lucan, I say again, finding myself enjoying the sound of his name… if only because it seems to shock the asshole right out of him. I can feel his surprise as if it’s my own.
I thought… That gravelly voice of his trails off as if he’s out of breath. And then I hear the panting.
What’s wrong? I ask, panic momentarily creeping back in. Do Monsters get asthma, or something? Merely a week ago, I would have been overjoyed to hear that the thing that howls beyond the Wall has some sort of medical issue, but now that thought fills me with a sudden urge to protect. To heal.
No, I don’t have fucking asthma, Lucan gets out between heavy breaths. Just give me a second.
My thrill doesn’t want to subside, doesn’t want to be contained, because as soon as I’m sure his breathing has steadied, I burst out with, Did you hear me, though?
His chuckle vibrates against my chest at last. And here I was thinking you were dead.
Dead?
You know, the thing that happens when you’re no longer alive.
I wish I could glare at him. I know what dead means.
What was wrong? he questions, ignoring me.
You could tell something was wrong?
Saskia. He says my name as if he’s practiced it a hundred times since the moment we last talked. What was wrong?