Page 51 of Chaos

He must be thinking exactly the same thing, because he says, “Let’s take one week. One week where nothing changes. No death or threats of death. No catastrophes. No kidnappings or illnesses or—”

“Sinkholes.”

“Especially no sinkholes.”

And I guess no telling him about Maybe, I add silently, as our heart rates slow and our breathing settles, night settling in. He pulls the covers over us.

“We’ll get the sled in balance.” His arms tighten. “Just you and me.”

Beast groans at that. I forgot about him.

“And the dog.” Then almost reflexively, he adds, “And Auden and Shane,” like he can’t quite even conceive of our relationship without mentioning them, too.

“Yorke?” I yawn just as I’m about to fall asleep. I could tell him I love him like he loves me, and I know he’d have given himself up to save me, so it makes it right. But it’ll only make him angry again.

“Hmm?”

“What does an exotic almond taste like?”

“Exactly like a regular one. But it did have a date-honey glaze.”

“Sounds like something that should exist in the Flower-verse.” I yawn heavily.

“I’d rather eat Plumberger’s travesty meals right here with you.”

12 |A requisite for mine

YORKE

ILIE IN OUR BEDin flimsy shafts of silver moonlight for a long time, listening to Beast’s snoring and the occasional snuffle of Frankie’s breathing.

Her body is warm and lax against me.

We fit together differently now, sharper where my knees tuck behind hers, harder where her ankle sits between mine. The fine ridges of her ribs press against my fingers. She's frail, her hard-earned muscles eaten away by the last month.

I was too rough with her probably, not fully conscious of thrusting away inside of her far harder than I should have,considering she’s still recovering from a blood infection, a concussion, and malnutrition.

It sits in my throat, tight and heavy as I run through everything she said and didn’t say, unpacking her words, evaluating them.

Ben performed a cavity search that had nothing to do with searching for weapons and everything to do with a need to humiliate and torment her.

I repeat her story in my head over and over and over again, building the scene in my mind. How she’d have cowered, squeezed her eyes shut, curled into fetal position.Don’t. Stop,I imagine her saying, terrified, defenseless, still bleeding and dizzy from the scalp wound, exhausted from hunger and near starvation.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept her in a cold cellar without a blanket or proper food, denied her water and soap and a toilet.

And that fucker in the infirmary bed degraded her for it, shamed her for it, called her names.

And he touched her.

He exposed himself to her.

He jerked his dick off in front of her, reveling in her pain and fear, while he stared at her and insulted her, terrified her, promised how he’d hurt her again. I say it over and over and over in my head until I can almost hear the words, breathy and gritty and full of hate, smell the fetid stink of that cellar, and every single time I flinch and my blood burns hotter and I feel it as strongly as if I’d been in that room with her, bore witness to every hurt, every indignity.

I ask myself repeatedly, am I mad forheror am I mad forme?It wasn’t my body they violated. It was hers. And that feels so much worse.

Is what I feel a primitive territorial rage? That they touched what’s mine? It certainly feels worse than if they’d touched me. Or is it anger that they touched her without herpermission? That they scared her and made her cry? That they stole a part of her and left something else behind?

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