Page 9 of Faded Rhythm

The nausea subsides a few moments later. I open my eyes and he’s still there, still staring. I sit up straighter, smoothing my hair back away from my face, self-conscious all of a sudden.

“What now?” I ask.

He inhales deeply and blows it out slow. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, noticing how broad it is. He’s bigger than Brett. More solid.

“That depends on you,” he says.

My heart thuds again as my mind goes to the only thing that may be worse than death.

“Are you…are you gonna…?” I trail off, praying to God he spares me of that, too.

“That ain’t my style,” the man says.

“Then—“

“I’m the only hope you have of staying alive. Trust me or don’t, it’s your decision, but make no mistake, Sable. Brett is gonna do whatever he has to do to make sure you don’t see your next birthday.”

5

King

We’re in her bedroomand she’s on her knees.

Not in the way her husband used to enjoy. Not in the way I let myself imagine that one and only time before I pushed the image out of my mind forever.

She’s on her knees gathering herself, apparently too weak or too nervous to climb up onto her bed. She sits like a statue, back straight, arms stiff at her sides, eyes locked on the floor beneath her like it has the answers she seeks.

I sit across from her in a wingback leather desk chair, one of those overpriced ones that matches this kind of house. Showy and grand for no reason.

The room smells good. Something floral, but also sweet. Maybe it’s her.

Whatever it is, it’s distracting.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” I say, my voice low. “Why would your husband want you dead?”

She hesitates.

Not for long, but long enough to raise every flag I’ve been trained to notice. Her fingers twitch against her thigh. Her lips part, but nothing comes. Then, finally, “I don’t know.”

She’s lying.

Maybe not entirely. Maybe it’s a half-truth. But it’s not the whole picture. I’ve interrogated insurgents, smugglers, arms dealers, and mercenaries for hire. I’ve dragged answers out of people much tougher and more criminal.

But Sable?

Pretty, scared, confused Sable?

I don’t know how to get in her head. Not yet.

My eyes fixate on her face. Up close, she’s even prettier than she was through my binoculars. There’s something about her face—it’s delicate, but not fragile. There’s a quiet strength in her that manifests on her face, but it hasn’t hardened her. She’s soft.

Even now, disheveled and wide-eyed with fear, she’s breathtaking. The complete opposite of everything I’ve been exposed to throughout my life.

Group homes full of other hard legs. Barracks. Makeshift camps in the middle of nowhere. My life’s been a rough combination of dirt, steel, and grit. Men who are hard and broken. Sable is the kind of soft I don’t know what to do with. It makes me feel uneasy.

Even her voice. It’s so soft and feminine and pretty, if a voice can be pretty. The kind that can read you a story or sing you to sleep. Clear like wind chimes at dusk. It’s the kind of voice I’ve only ever heard on television.

“I don’t understand any of this,” she says softly. “I don’t know who to trust.”

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