Page 22 of Powerful

He scoffs before raising his arms, surveying the length of my handiwork. ‘Do I look the part? In the dark, at the very least.’

I take a few slow steps toward his white-clad figure, eyeing every seam and panel along the fabric. Then I’m clapping my hands together, squealing slightly. ‘It’s perfect! You look more menacing than usual.’

His lips twitch. ‘It’s about time you gave me a compliment.’

‘Oh, wait, one more thing.’ I snatch the leather mask from the dusty work table. Stepping close enough to smell the starch I’ve doused his uniform in – for authenticity, of course – I look up into dark eyes already pinned on me.

I’m acutely aware that we are sharing the same air as I reach up to fasten the mask over his eyes and nose. The feel of his gaze roaming over my face has my palms growing sweaty. But I continue my admiration of his own features, following the curve of his cheekbones beneath the mask, the straight bridge of his nose in the center. When my gaze glides over the scar decorating his lips, I’m forced to fight the urge to run my finger over it.

‘Still menacing?’ he murmurs, his face hovering over mine.

‘More than ever,’ I assure breathlessly.

We watch each other for several shaky breaths before he clears his throat. ‘Don’t you have places to be? A particular blue shirt to sell?’

At the mention of my creation he so ruthlessly criticized, I gain the strength to take a step away from him. ‘Why, yes, I do. And if it doesn’t sell, I know exactly what I’ll be wearing on our little mission.’

He shakes his head in disbelief, crossing large arms over his chest. ‘You know, you are far more conniving than you look.’

I tip my chin up. ‘And how exactly do I look?’

‘Sweet. Unassuming. Pretty enough to get away with wearing that horribly blue shirt.’

My throat is dry, but I attempt a swallow anyway. He’s looking down at me in the same way I do my stitching. Admiration lights his eyes even while he searches for any sort of fault to focus on. As though he aches for a reason to rip at the seams of what it is that has slowly tethered us together.

‘Then wear it I shall,’ I reassure him.

After fumbling for the door – an action typically associated with when his eyes linger over me – I hurry out onto the alleyway.

Sun dapples my face, freckling my nose with warmth as I hurry down Loot. I find the Fort thankfully untouched, seeing that to the untrained eye it is, in fact, a pile of garbage. I’m reminded of my decision to redecorate for Pae when she returns and add the task to my mental list of chores.

Lifting one of the many rugs, I find clothing buried beneath, belonging to the bundle I’d thrown into the alley during my attempted robbery. After meeting Mak, I came back to properly collect and dust off my work before ensuring every scrap of fabric was hidden beneath the many layers of the Fort.

Once I’ve gathered the bundle of clothing in my arms, I set off towards the corner I’ve neglected for nearly two weeks now. But after tonight, I will no longer be fed for free or cozied up beneath the cover of his sheets – not that I wouldn’t want that to continue. But Mak has made it very clear that I shouldn’t be seeing him after our mission. Though, I have yet to find a good reason as to why.

He makes me happy, for whatever absurdly odd reason. He’s not exactly a ray of sunshine, but perhaps something equivalent to moonlight. Mysterious and unnerving. Equally as beautiful, yet, soft enough to stare at.

With thoughts of Mak consuming whatever rationality I had left, I hurry down the bustling street. I’m nearly at my corner now and have yet to drop a single item of clothing. This is something I hope will become a regular occurrence. With that goal in mind, I hug the mass of fabric tighter as I hurry towards the mouth of my usual alley.

Most merchants have carts to sell from. I have other methods.

Years ago, Pae and I fastened a long wire across the opening of this alley, and I am shocked to find the rusty nails still holding. While balancing the bundle of clothing in my arms, I begin draping them across the line to display my handiwork. It makes for a makeshift sort of banner, colorful enough to draw attention.

Once each piece is arranged to my liking, I plop down beneath the display and fight the urge to pick at my nails in boredom. Deciding to spend my time wisely, I begin fiddling with the bits of leftover leather from Mak’s uniform.

The display of his knife collection comes to mind as I run my thumb over the smooth material. He has no way to carry them on him without fear of being stabbed by protruding blades.

That’s when an idea begins to form. Patterns and measurements are suddenly swirling behind my closed eyelids, aligning into a tangible design. I begin tearing fabric and pinning corners, watching my idea come to life.

That’s when my stomach grumbles at me, the sound a reminder of the little money I have. And with that in mind, I smile brightly at each person who passes, as if that is enough to persuade them to buy something.

And just when I’m starting to think my attempts are scaring customers away, a man strolls towards me.

I stand, drape my project over the wire, and greet him with what I hope is a slightly less desperate smile. I watch him grow closer, watch fuzzy features familiarize with every step.

I know this man. His is one of the faces I see when shutting my eyes before bed.

This is one of the men that followed me.

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