Page 23 of Protected

His position bent over like that, extending an arm under the top bunk to reach me, has got to be uncomfortable,but he holds it for a minute. Speaking with nothing but the light touch of his hand.

For no good reason, it makes me feel better. A little less alone.

I wish I knew what he was thinking. His lack of speech doesn’t bother me—it simply feels likehim—but it’s so hard to know what’s going on in his mind if he can’t put it into words.

If only there was a way to more clearly communicate with him.

Maybe he senses that I’ve recovered from my small emotional collapse because he straightens up and withdraws, leaning down to pick up yesterday’s clothes from the floor where he dropped them.

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, so I can see the bulk of his strong body. Outside, he sleeps in his clothes, but because we’re more secure here, he took them off last night. He’s only wearing his boxers, and the sight of his tight ass and the sculpted contours of his thigh muscles as they stretch gives me that weird clench below my belly again.

It’s not lust as I understand it, although everything about his body right now is attractive. It’s deeper than that. Some sort of possessive entitlement. It’s disturbing.

He’s about to pull on his jeans when I stop him.

“Wait, Deck. You can’t put those jeans on. The whole back of them is caked in mud.”

He straightens up with a jerk and turns, his jeans hanging down from one hand.

I sit up. “I’ll wash them for you. I was going to do mine today anyway, so I’ll do your stuff with them.”

He stands still, frowning down at me.

“It won’t be any trouble.” To push him past his reluctance, I add, “It’s really for my benefit. Since you insist on following me around, it will be nicer if your clothes don’t stink quite so much.”

That does it. His shoulders shake a few times in a silent chuckle. He reaches over to turn on the flashlight he was using last night. It illuminates the room with a blueish, eerie glow.

I slept in the loose knit dress, and I have to pull it down as I slide out of the lower bunk since it gets hiked up around my hips.

Deck’s expression changes, and he gestures out the window.

“I know it’s early, but I’m wide-awake. I might as well get up and see if they need help in the kitchen. But first give me as many of your dirty clothes as you can without going around naked, and I’ll wash them with mine later when the sun comes up.”

He’s gotten over his hesitation, so together we collect all his extra clothes except the cargo trousers and T-shirt he puts on. I add my clothes to the pile and leave them on the floor. I remember seeing an old laundry basket in a closet somewhere. I’ll grab it later to haul them down.

Deck is about to stuff his feet into his hiking boots when I sit down on the edge of my bunk and pat the mattress beside me. Frowning in confusion, he sits whereI indicate, having to fold his body and lean forward to avoid banging against the top bunk.

“How would you feel about learning sign language?” I ask him before I lose the courage.

His brown eyes widen slightly.

“It would be easier for you to tell me things,” I explain. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. But it could just be with me. I doubt most of the others even know American Sign Language. You could use it only with me. If you want.”

He sits very still for a minute. Then very slowly he nods.

Relieved and strangely gratified, I beam at him. Then I start by showing him the signs for parts of the body. Feet. Legs. Stomach. Chest. Shoulders. Arms. Hands. Head. Face. Hair.

He picks them up quickly, but then he nods toward the door of the room.

Maybe he got rounded up for a guard shift this morning. Or maybe he just needs to go to the bathroom. I let him go.

If he can learn ASL, maybe eventually he’ll be able to tell me.

I help out in the kitchen with breakfast. By the time everything is cleaned up, it’s midmorning, so I find that laundry basket and put Deck’s and my clothes in it to carry outside. There were some barrels and tubs in the side yard to catch rainwater, and using those will be easierthan pumping all that water from the well or managing down by the creek where there’s as much chance of getting the clothes dirtier as cleaner.

As I’m passing an open door on the hallway, I pause when Logan appears. It’s the smallest bedroom on the third floor aside from our tiny turret room.

“Everything okay?” he asks, giving me a quick once-over in that efficient manner that characterizes him. Like he’s checking for issues rather than personally concerned.

---