Page 14 of Beacon

I have nothing else to do, so I focus on him. He must have shaved his head last night or first thing this morning because it’s perfectly smooth, the taut brown skin over the sleek curve of his skull deeply compelling. He’s still taking the time to shave his head, so I wonder why he hasn’tbeen shaving his face as well. His beard is thick and dark and untrimmed.

It makes him look different.

He’s wearing a variation on the clothes he’s always worn. Either jeans or camouflage army pants with a short-sleeved, crewneck T-shirt. He’s never worn a jacket unless it’s freezing cold.

He slants his eyes up toward me without warning, narrowing them into an obvious glare.

“I’m not allowed to talk to you. I’m not allowed to look at you. What exactly do you expect me to do?”

“Eat your food and keep your mouth shut. You’re here to get better. Not have a cozy visit.”

I swallow hard and drop my eyes, making myself finish my stew even though I’m barely hungry anymore.

He finishes before I do, but he doesn’t leave. He gets up to fill his glass with more water and sits back down to drink it without speaking.

When I’ve eaten everything I can—mostly emptying my bowl—I stack Mack’s bowl and spoon on mine and carry them to the sink.

I expect Mack to object when I start washing the dishes, but he doesn’t. He keeps sitting at the table like a mute statue.

It’s hard not to get annoyed with him. He’s really being an asshole when nothing about this situation is my fault. I was planning to go home this morning. I hadn’t intendedto get assaulted and almost raped. He doesn’t have to act like I’m here on purpose to bug him.

Trying to fight the urge to snap out an angry comment, I can’t help thinking about a night in the first year after he and I met.

When resources in my small hometown ran out in the fourth year after Impact, most of the town had no choice but to pack up and migrate. We headed to Fort Knox, which was still guarded by what was left of the army and was taking in refugees.

That was where I met Mack.

I noticed him the first time I saw him and kept watching him in the initial days after we arrived. He was busy and distracted most of the time, helping to sort and organize newcomers and making sure they had what they needed.

I don’t think he was even aware I existed for at least a week, but I felt safe with him—which I almost never did back then—so I kind of latched onto him. He no doubt found me clingy since I went everywhere he did, trailing behind like a bashful shadow so I could at least be close. But he never got annoyed. He was gentle and encouraging, taking the time to get to know me and get me to open up.

He helped me learn to stand up for myself. He taught me that it was possible.

And when Fort Knox had to evacuate a month after we arrived, he kept me safe in the chaos. I still don’t knowwhat he saw in me back then, but we eventually started fucking. With my past experiences with my husband and all his responsibilities, a real relationship was out of the question. But we enjoyed each other, so we got together whenever our paths crossed for sex.

The night I’m remembering now was one of our early hookups, after I joined Maria’s crew and he went off to save more lives. We only had one night together that time, and we were both really excited about seeing each other again. The plan for our short time together was to fuck until we dropped.

I still don’t know exactly what happened. We’d just gotten going. Our clothes were off, and he was on top of me in bed, and his cock was moving inside me, and it should have been so good. But I was hit with a wave of grief and shame—about how it took me so long, the entire world falling apart, before I found even a little of my backbone and learned how to recognize and want a good man. This being my reality hurt so much that I started to cry, even as Mack was pumping into me fast and eager, huffing and muttering about how hot I was, how good he felt in my pussy, how close he was to coming already.

I couldn’t hold back the tears, but I didn’t want him to see them, so I turned my head to the side and squeezed my eyes shut, hoping he’d think my shaking was from pleasure.

He didn’t. It only took a few seconds for him to wrench to a stop, panting desperately with his cock halfway in.

I wanted him to get release, so I tried to urge him back into rhythm, but he pulled out completely, his eyes searching my face as he tried to catch his breath and rein in his physical impulses.

Despite the fact that I was still fighting against tears, that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted him to find—to take—everything he needed in me. So I leaned over to take him in my mouth so I could finish him that way.

He wouldn’t let me. He straightened me up and pulled me into his arms instead.

I cried against his chest on and off for the rest of the night, trying to come to terms with the person I used to be. And he was still holding me when I finally went to sleep.

My eyes burn and my shoulders shake again as I remember that night, knowing it was one of so many times Mack put his own needs on hold for mine.

I don’t snap back at him. I don’t lash out. I’m not even angry anymore.

I wash and dry the dishes since it’s the only thing I can do for him in this moment, and then I leave him alone like he wants for the rest of the evening.

The next day doesn’t improve Mack’s mood. He’s chopping wood outside when I get up, so I make breakfast—grilled sandwiches with the last of the bread andcheese from my pack and a couple of slices of ham I find in the refrigerator.

---