The General's Daughter (Snow and Ash #1)

by Heather Knight

  “I’m sorry.” I start crying again.

  “It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly gentle. He lifts me up and sets me on the cracked double-sink counter. I can smell it, the puke, and all I want to do is wake up and find out it’s yesterday.

  Talon, ever the silent one except when he has something to say, cleans up my mess. Then he uses what smells like homemade alcohol to swab the area until not even a hint of stink remains.

  I’m shaking, and I can’t think anything coherent. After the tub is half-full, Talon picks me up and stands me in the bath. When he takes the blanket away and spots the tattoo on my shoulder, he does a double take.

  “Sit,” he commands.

  I mean to, but I’m shaking too hard, and he has to help me or I’ll fall. I’m naked in front of my enemy, and he’s the only one who’s been kind to me in I don’t know how long.

  The water is hot, almost too hot, and still my teeth chatter. He takes up a rag and begins washing away the blood. His touch is hesitant yet efficient. Respectful, even, and I’m not prepared for this. I grip the sides of the tub.

  His brow creases. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  He doesn’t look me in the eye, which is fine.

  “It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  He darts me a look, then resumes stroking my breasts with the cloth. The water is turning a pale pink, what with all the blood.

  “You had a boyfriend?” he asks.

  “No. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

  “I guess it’s kind of hard when your dad’s so—”

  “I lost my virginity to a trucker on I-79 the day after Mom died.”

  He goes still only for a second, but I notice. I’ve shocked him. He’s cleaning my stomach now with slow, gentle sweeps. There’s nothing sexual about it, and I let him.

  A question hovers between us. It burns hotter than the tail of a comet, and for some reason I need to talk about it.

  “Mom died because of me. Your mom too, and Misty. I couldn’t spend even one more day as Ilsa Balenchuk. I hated her. I climbed out my bedroom window and I walked for hours until I hit the interstate, and then I hitched a ride. The guy was more than happy to pick me up.”

  He’s cleaning the area between my legs now, and I’m nearly sick with shame. I know what he’s doing. Talon is washing away all evidence of the attack. And the way he’s doing it, he’s making me his. But he’s so practical about it. There’s not even a hint of lust or groping. I’m raw, my soul is bleeding, and I really want someone to take my shame away. God, I need it. I don’t know why it’s working, but it is.

  He frowns. His lips pucker and twitch, but it’s a while before he finds words. “That trucker. Did he—”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and nod. “He pulled the truck over, yanked me into the back, and raped me. I was a virgin, and he liked that.” I blink rapidly, remembering the pain, remembering my pleas.

  “How did you get away?”

  “I didn’t. Not for a while.”

  The rag drops back into the water. “Why the fuck not?”

  How can I explain it so that he can understand, when even I don’t? “He cuffed me to the backseat. Besides, I figured I deserved it.”

  He retrieves the cloth and grips it like it’s a weapon, and when he recovers himself enough to scrub my back, it’s as though he’s scrubbing away sin. I try to understand, and all I can think is, to him, not running away is weak, and it makes me despicable. I don’t know. Maybe it does. I still think I deserved what I got. That time, and maybe even this time, too.

  He tosses the cloth up onto the sink, rests his elbows on his knees, and squints at me. “Didn’t anyone try to help you?”

  I shake my head, and I can’t look him in the eye so I stare at my fingernails. They are torn from when I’d scratched my attacker, and in some places they’re still bleeding. “With truckers, it’s like they have this code. You’ve got a teenage girl chained in the back of your truck? Way to go, bro!”

  I’d tried a couple of times to get help, even cried and begged, but no one paid any notice. When you know there’s no hope at all and no one cares enough to save you, that’s one of the worst feelings.

  He swears softly.

  “A few weeks later he had a delivery up in Albany. Halfway there he pulled into some truck stop. He had a couple beers, took his usual fuck, and after that he passed out. But then this bus pulled in. It was one of those double-decker ones. A bunch of people got out and went inside to, I don’t know, use the bathroom, grab some snacks. No one was checking to see if they had a ticket when they got back on. I didn’t have any shoes, but I grabbed one of his T-shirts and pulled on my jeans—which hadn’t been washed in weeks, by the way.”

  He nods once like he’s saying, yeah, good move.

  “I dug his folding knife out of his pocket. I was so scared. I kept waiting for him to wake up, but he didn’t. I wiped down the back of the truck so there wouldn’t be any prints, and then I slit his throat. I slit his throat, Talon, and I crawled out of the truck and got on the bus.”

  Talon goes still. “You killed him?”

  Inhale. Exhale. “I went to the top level and ducked down between two rows. I knew—I just knew someone would find me there. But then the bus got moving and I sat in a seat like I was supposed to be there. The whole time I was afraid someone would find the body and remember me, the girl he had with him, and the police would come after the bus. I kept looking for flashing lights. I don’t know what I’d have done if that happened. Hell, I didn’t even know what I’d do if someone realized I didn’t have a ticket. I couldn’t have paid for it. All I had was a newfound skill for deep throat. I would have used it, too, if it meant getting away.”

  “Lean back,” he says, and without question I obey. He scoops handfuls of water over my hair, and then he begins scrubbing. We don’t have any shampoo, not even a bar of soap, but the rough way he digs into my scalp makes me feel as though he is stripping away the filth. Not just the grease and the blood, but the stain of the assault. Tears leak from the sides of my eyes and back into my hair, but I stifle my sobs as best as I can. He washes those away too.

  By the time Talon stands me up and uses the rough blanket to dry me off, everything I know about myself and the world has gone through a shift. The poles have flipped, Yellowstone has pulled back the ash, and God has called the Rapture. I feel almost clean.

  Talon Heinseman is not my friend. But this is not the world I was raised in. The rules are new—brutal. The only person I can count on to help me is him, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him happy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He doesn’t take me back to my room. Instead he takes me down the hall to the end bedroom. All there is in there is a freestanding coal heater and a bed. He sets me down and gives me the pillow. There is only one.

  When he climbs in behind me, I go rigid as a corpse. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re shivering. You’re still in shock.” His voice is gruff and, really, kind of scary. It’s the sort of tone that doesn’t encourage conversation, and it works. I remain quiet as he pulls me closer until I lay in the curve of his body.

  I lie there, stiff and confused, long after his breathing settles into gentle snores. I’m glad not to go back to the other room, what with its shattered door and crushing memories. But it’s weird to be lying here with him. Even stranger is how safe I feel. I fall asleep finally, and when I wake up, I can feel his erection pressed against my backside. He’s spooning me, and his hand is cupping my breast. I know I should feel violated, but I don’t. I know I should push him away, but I can’t. It comforts me. This is entirely ridiculous, given what happened last night. I remain still, absorbing his warmth. His hand moves from my breast down to my belly, and the pressure feels nice. Without meaning to, I relax back into him, and soon I’m sleeping again.

  Something soft lands on my head, and I awake with a gasp.

  “You can put those on,” Talon says
with a scowl. I pick up the bundle and hold it to my chest. Is he planning on watching? That bath was medicine. It was a Band-Aid. I wasn’t about to make getting naked in front of him a habit.

  Talon blushes, actually blushes and takes a step back.

  “I’ll be out here,” he says tersely. “You have two minutes.”

  I’m sore. I really need to pee, but I don’t see a bucket anywhere. Does that cracked green toilet work? God, I hope so.

  The clothes turn out to be snow cammies. I put on the pants even though they’re huge. I make do by cuffing them up and belting them as tightly as I can. I don the long-sleeve knit shirt and knot it at the side, then shove my arms into the snow-cammie button-up. I look stupid. I don’t need a mirror to tell me this. But maybe this will make me look sexless enough that no one will look at me and want to…

  It’s a long way from the green silk dress I wore my last night on the mountain, but there are socks, which makes me about as happy as I’ve been since I got here. I hate cold feet.

  Talon is leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets when I emerge. He cocks his head.

  “No more running away.” His voice is flat, but the command is there.

  I nod.

  “Wherever I go, you come with me. I don’t want any more of your shit. Understand?”

  It’s like listening to my father, and I find myself slipping into the familiar role of Obedient One. The corners of my mouth lift slightly and I nod, but I blur my eyes so I don’t actually have to be in the moment.

  Talon grunts, pushes himself off the wall, and strides down the hallway.

  “Talon.”

  He stops, but he doesn’t turn. “What?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  He sighs. “We really aren’t equipped—”

  “That’s okay. I just want to be—you know. Private. As I can be, anyway.”

  His face falls. He looks away and his mouth twitches, and for a minute it seems like he’s going to apologize. But he doesn’t. He purses his lips, picks me up, and carries me outside. Because, of course, I have no shoes.

  Outside!

  I’ve never been happier to feel the chill wind bite my cheeks. My throat closes up, and I remain silent as Talon carries me to the pit they’ve set up for their bathroom needs.

  He makes a show of turning around and folding his arms across his chest. I quickly do my business, wincing at the soreness in my muscles. I’m not new to the feeling. Rough handling always leaves me bruised. I learned from the trucker to dread the next morning.

  Once back in the trailer, which by the way looks like it’s been attacked by a rust monster, he sets me down and leads me to the kitchen. Two other men are in the room. Dinner-Plate Hands stares curiously as Talon ladles sticky oatmeal into a dish. He avoids making eye contact with me.

  The one with the blond hair makes a show of thunking his cup down on a rickety side table. “What, she’s our guest now?”

  “She’s mine,” Talon says levelly.

  “That’s bull—”

  Talon rounds on the guy and slams his hand on the table. “No one kills her unless it’s me. No one fucks her unless it’s me. Anyone who wants to mess with her is going to have to go through me. Do you understand?”

  Blondie takes a step back. “Sure, man. I didn’t mean anything.”

  His bald companion spits out a sigh, slips on his hat, and gets to his feet. “I think I’ll go to the shit pit.”

  Later that day when Talon brings my hiking shoes into the room, my heart takes off like an Olympic triathlete at the finish line.

  “Not so fast,” he says when I reach for them. “I keep them when we’re not going outside.”

  I’m no longer plotting my escape, but disappointment stabs me in the kidneys. I’m quick to hide how much that bothers me with a nod and a complacent blink. But when I try to do up the laces, my hands shake. I know he can see this, but he doesn’t say anything.

  He leads me outside, and once again the beauty of the wilderness rushes through me like a Christmas breeze. The trees may be bare and there may be snow on the ground, but there are no walls. I am on parole.

  “What?” Talon flicks me an annoyed glance, and I realize I’m smiling and my cheeks feel warm.

  “Nothing. It’s just…it’s so big out here. I know we can’t see like we used to, but it doesn’t feel like there’s a list of rules anywhere within a hundred miles!”

  He frowns, and I lose my smile. Did I say something wrong?

  He grabs an ax that is leaning against a burnt metal barrel and takes my hand in his. We head for a line of trees that stands a couple hundred feet to the left. I can’t tell north or south. The sun is still hidden by the volcanic debris way up in the atmosphere. They say someday it’ll all work out and the sun will come back, but for now, I’m stuck with forward, back, left, and right.

  It begins to snow, light fluffy flakes that land on my eyelashes.

  “Thank you.” I bite my lip. Is talking okay?

  “For what?” he demands.

  “For letting me come outside.”

  He shrugs. “It’s either that or leave you in there with them.”

  I suck in a breath as the chill hits my stomach. No, I don’t want to be in there with them. Suddenly, I’m not playacting the obedient captive. I’m glad for Talon’s protection.

  Talon doesn’t like me. He never has and he never will. But all in all, he’s been surprisingly kind when you take in the circumstances. My hand is enveloped in his, and he’s shortened his strides so I can keep up. He’s warned the other guys not to mess with me. How would he be with a girl he actually liked? For some reason, the thought makes me sad.

  We get a good twenty feet inside the woods, and Talon brushes off a log. “Sit.”

  I do as he says, and he starts chopping a tall birch tree. I know it’s a birch because I recognize the bark. I used to love trees, back when there was such a thing as leaves, and wind, and the music they made together. I let my mind drift.

  “You doing okay?” He’s breathing heavily, and there’s a good-size chunk missing from one side of the tree.

  “Yes.” I give him a sunny smile, the one Dad looks for.

  Talon scowls, then resumes chopping.

  When he pulls out his water bottle, he takes a long drink and then holds it out toward me.

  “No, thank you.” I smile. “I’m fine.” My posture is perfect, and I compose my expression into blandness. My eyes are downcast, lips uplifted, just as I’ve been trained. The perfect doll.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” He’s squinting at me.

  I wilt. “What?”

  “Don’t give me that innocent look. You’re planning something.”

  My lips part, and for a moment all I can do is blink at him.

  “You’re mine now, understand?” he demands, taking a step toward me.

  “I am,” I stutter. “I mean, I do. I’m trying to be, ah, cooperative.” What on earth does he want?

  “Cooperative, huh? What’s going on behind those sappy little smiles of yours?”

  I shake my head. I’m doing what he said. Not giving him any trouble.

  “That shit’s not real,” he says with a look of disgust. He returns to the tree and regrips the ax. “You really don’t want to mess with me, Ilsa.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m doing the best I can. What, am I supposed to pee my pants for you again? Is that what you want?”

  He swings the ax, and it goes awry, striking above his mark. He swears.

  Fine. He doesn’t want Obedient General’s Daughter. What does he want? Shoot. I don’t even know this guy.

  “Where were you?” I ask.

  He takes another swing. “When?”

  “Duh. When Yellowstone happened.”

  Comprehension lights his face. “JFK Airport. I was just getting ready to ship out to Afghanistan.”

  “You were in the military?”

  He smirks. “Did the uniform clue you in?�
��

  I suck my teeth at him. “Dad wears a uniform. So do all of his men. His army didn’t exist before the Ash.”

  He shifts position and takes a couple swings on the other side of the tree, just above the first wound. He is so strong. Life’s been hard since the Ash. For some, at least. The sheer power of him awes me, leaves me warm in places that have never felt anything but pain.

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Which one what?” His tone tells me I’m getting on his nerves. “And wipe off that scowl.”

  “You told me not to use my ‘Dad face.’”

  “Your what?” He lets the ax fall to the ground. I have his attention.

  “I have to act a certain way, wear the right clothes, arrange my hair the way he wants, at all times.” I shrug. “It got worse when I got back.”

  “After the trucker?”

  “Oh. No. I didn’t go home. I stayed with some college kids in Pittsburgh and worked in a strip club. Serving drinks, not stripping.”

  He snorts. “How old were you?”

  I spread my hands. “They didn’t care. It was all under the table.”

  “Weren’t guys all over you?”

  “I shaved my head and got a tattoo. I dressed in black muscle shirts and wore chains. I sort of let people think I was a lesbian.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Having a tattoo doesn’t make you a lesbian.”

  “Like I’d know that.”

  He shakes his head. “So how’d you end up back at your Dad’s place?”

  I shiver, but it’s from more than the cold. “After Yellowstone, when everything got bad in Pittsburgh, my one roommate and I tried getting into some of the smaller towns. They were so not interested in taking in strangers. Then I got the flu. I don’t know what he did, but my friend Vaughn got his hands on a car with gas in it, and he drove me back to my Dad’s. I had no say in the matter.”

  “Vaugn sounds like a good guy.”

  The conversation is getting painful. I don’t want to talk about Vaugh anymore.

  “Anyway, Dad isn’t just obsessed with how I look. Now it includes forks, napkins, facial expressions, and my accent. My posture too, in case you hadn’t noticed. And as for friends, there aren’t any.”