Page 8 of Citadel

One day, maybe I’ll live somewhere where drinking water is more accessible. We only had enough because Fran had a device that desalinated ocean water and made it drinkable, but it was a small system and so our supplies were always limited.

Cole has a canteen with him, and Breanna and I still have more than half the water in our bottle. It won’t last forever though. Surely on land there are better ways to get drinking water.

I’m thinking about this as I come back through the woods toward the church. When a hand grabs me out of the blue, I have no warning.

I cry out in fear and try to dart out of the grasp.

The grip is too strong, however. I can’t get away.

Panic rises fast, only slamming to a stop when I lift my head and see that it’s Cole that’s grabbing me.

“What the fuck?” I choke out.

“I told you not to go far. What if I’d been a stranger?”

“You aren’t a stranger! You’re an asshole. Let me go!”

“You need to be more careful. And you need to learn how to defend yourself.”

“I defend myself by running.”

“That’s a good strategy,” he says with a nod, proof that he’s taking my words seriously. “But it won’t work if they already have a hold on you. You’re not on a safe little island in the middle of the sea anymore. You need to be on guard.”

He’s still got that grip on my arm, so I shake it off, rubbing it although he didn’t really hurt me. “I will be. I already know the world is a dangerous place. Do you think anyone who’s survived this long doesn’t already know that? You don’t have to be mean about it.”

He ignores the last comment and responds to the question. “There’s knowing and then there’s knowing.” He shifts his eyes quickly toward the door opening in the church and then back to me. “Does she always do that?”

“Do what?” I know he’s talking about Breanna, but I don’t know what he’s asking.

“Offer herself up to any guy around.”

“When that’s what keeps us alive, she does.”

His lips tighten.

“She didn’t know you were different than the other men. Don’t take it personally.”

He doesn’t look angry. Just vaguely displeased. But surely he can’t be surprised that women—like men—do what they need to do to survive.

“She doesn’t expect you to do that?”

My mouth drops open. “No. You heard her last night, didn’t you? She always tried to protect me from that. Not that it matters much.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means no one is much interested in me anyway.” I say the words matter-of-factly. I’m not whining or complaining. It’s actually been a source of relief to not be particularly attractive.

When he just looks at me blankly, I add, “I’m not pretty.”

“You think that matters? It’s not about attraction. It’s about power.”

“Well, yeah. When it’s forced. But sometimes it’s about attraction.”

“If one person is doing it to survive, then it’s never about attraction. It’s always about power.”

“That’s why she makes choices as much as she can. About who she gives herself to. She’s trying to keep as much power for herself as she can.”

“I understand that. I don’t judge her.”

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