by Casey Hays
“How many of you are there in Eden?” My words are cautious and filled with doubt. Ian simply shrugs.
“I don’t know. A few thousand, maybe.”
“Thousand?” My disbelief fills the word. “Oh. Oh yes.” I shake my head.
“What?” he asks.
“There aren’t even that many people left on earth.”
He puffs out an exasperated breath. “Okay. Believe what you want. Either way, Eden is real, and I plan to get out of this prison one way or another so that I can get back to it.”
My eyes flash defensively. “This isn’t a prison.”
“It’s not?” he smirks. “Well, you could have fooled me. Because it looks, acts, and smells just like one.” He stretches out full length once again onto his back painfully and plops the cloth back over his eye. “No offense to you. But I’m not staying here. My parents will be looking for me anyway. They’ve probably already got a search expedition organized.”
“Parents? What is that?”
Ian raises his head and peers at me from under the cloth. I barely see the movement in the dark that has consumed the cave.
“You don’t have parents?” He sits up, and I know he’s looking at me, probably in shock. “Wow. You really are backwards around here. Life without parents. What a concept.”
I frown. I’m becoming frustrated with his smart remarks about our home. Granted, it has its faults, but it is still home. Our home. His and mine. I scan the darkness until my eyes land on the bamboo gate and its wooden lock, the only things visible now. I can see where he might get the idea this is a prison. And for the next three days, I guess I am a prisoner here, too. But I don’t like being insulted, even if what he says is true.
“What is this ‘parents’ word?” I ask again.
I feel impatient.
“What are parents? Well, that can be a complicated answer depending on who you are, so I’ll stick to the basics. They are the people who raise you, you know? Mom gives birth in an extremely gross manner, and then she and Dad watch you grow up, take care of you, teach you stuff until you become a well-rounded, mature adult . . . or so they hope. Doesn’t always work out that way, but I guess they do their best.”
“I see.”
An old vision from a book snaps into my memory. A male, a female, and two children. They lived together as a unit called a family. Those adults must have been the parents. But how does he know about such things?
“Kate?” Ian snaps his fingers. “Don’t you at least have a mother?”
“Mother?” My eyes flick toward him. “I—”
He shakes his head. “You don’t know what I mean, do you? Man, what kind of a village do you come from?”
I’m silent.
“Okay. Okay,” he says. “A mother is the woman who gives birth to you, like I described before. She’s supposed to be the one who loves you most.” He laughs softly. “No. I guess she is the one who loves you most—in her own warped way . . .”
His voice trails, but under his breath he adds, “I can’t believe I’m having to explain this.”
I soak up what he’s said. The woman who used to come and see me—she was kind and loving, always sneaking books into the nursery after dark while the other children slept. But . . . it doesn’t matter now. I flinch and refocus on Ian.
“No. We don’t have mothers in the Village.” I say this with full exasperation. I don’t care what kind of story he’s trying to formulate; he is from the Village. He has to be.
“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “Well, anyway, mine will be looking for me. You can bet on that.”
I nod absently, even though I know he can’t see me now that the blackness has taken over my dark corner of the cell like the thick coat of a panther. Ian shifts his position on the mat and changes the subject.
“So when will they be back for you?”
“Three days,” I say without emotion.
He takes in a sharp, shocked breath. “Three days? You’re here for three days?”
“I didn’t want to come,” I say in my defense. “I refused, in fact. So my punishment . . . .” I let the words trail off.
“Well, of course you refused! If I’d had the chance, I would have refused, too.”
I shrug. Ian is silent for so long that it becomes a bit uncomfortable in the stifling cave. I shift nervously. My legs are falling asleep beneath me.
“Well, I guess . . . .” his voice is quiet. “I’m glad you came. It’s nice to talk to someone for a change. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but it feels like forever.”
I focus on his shadowy frame sitting on the mat, and I’m more confused than ever. He is not typical stock—not compared to what Mia told me about breeding, and I don’t know if I should feel nervous or relieved about it. It’s an altogether different experience than I was expecting.
He shifts, and I mechanically stiffen. Fear still lurks on the edges of my mind telling me I can’t let my guard down. I can’t let his actions or his words distract me from what he really is and for what we are destined. He and I . . . together.
I will never, never comply.
“Look, Kate,” He moves in the dark, adjusting to one side of his mat. “This is big enough for both of us. If you’re going to be here for three days, you’ll need to sleep. I can share the mat.”
He must sense my skepticism, even in the blackness, because his voice changes into something soft and luring.
“I promise not to touch you. I’ll divide the mat with this.”
He takes one of the thicker blankets, and in the gathering shadows, I watch him roll it into a long tube and place it down the middle of the mat lengthwise, creating a barrier.
“See? That will work just fine.”
It’s a touching gesture, but still I hesitate, running my hand across the dirt floor. Already my back is aching from sitting on it for so long. And the mat does seem inviting. Three nights on this dirt floor does not.
He leans toward me, and I catch a glimpse of his eyes in the moonlight that creeps toward me from the gate. Just a tiny glimpse, but they sparkle with honesty, and after a few more moments, I make up my mind to climb up onto the mat next to him. What else can I do? I have to sleep. But I position myself as far away from the middle as possible. Ian fans out the other blanket and throws it over both of us.
I lie perfectly still and hold my breath. I hear Ian’s quiet breathing in the dark.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m just not ready for . . . .” I pause.
“For what?”
I bite my lower lip. “You know.”
“Um, no. I don’t. But you’re welcome, anyway.” He rolls over. “Good night, Kate.”
“Good night,” I whisper.
I don’t sleep for a long time. I listen until Ian’s breathing is a steady, even rhythm, and I know he’s asleep. Only then do I feel somewhat safe enough to let my own mind drift off.
One thing is certain: Ian is a strange mate, and none of this is what I envisioned for my first night in the Pit. I don’t understand him—not one bit. But at least he expects nothing from me.
And yet, I know it is only a matter of time before I must face my destiny—or, in my case, face the consequences for rebelling against it. I wonder how understanding this strange male named Ian will be when my decision endangers his life. Because the rules are clear: a rejected mate is unworthy to live.
Chapter 5
“He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Micah 6:8
The entrance to the tiny cave faces east, and I awaken to the first bit of sunlight creeping its way into the room. It casts long shadows from the bamboo gate across the dirt floor. For a long time, I don’t move. I count the bamboo poles over and over.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. And again, one, two, three . . .
Next to me, Ian stirs in his sleep and his head rolls to one side—so close
to me that his nose brushes against my shoulder. I stiffen, strain away, against the farthest edge of the mat, holding my breath. But he doesn’t wake, and so ever so carefully, I roll onto my side to stare at his sleeping face.
In the dim light, I can see him better than last night. His hair is dark blond, thick, and mussed by sleep. The beginnings of a thin, whiskery beard form lightly on his chin. In sleep—his face relaxed—it’s easy to see the sheer handsomeness of his features. One side of his face is covered in shadow, and before I know it, I’m blushing at this unfamiliar realization: I like his look! His nose is set just right upon his face, and his jaw—sculpted into a fine line—smooths out against his neck in beautiful form. Never would I have guessed such fineness could be found in one of the stock. My eyes linger, watching the pulse of blood beat against his throat, and an overwhelming urge to touch him funnels through me. Do I dare press my fingertips against his neck and run them ever so gently down toward his chest? This was one of Madam Belle’s specialties, and I remember it well because it felt so nice with she brushed her hand against my cheek in class to demonstrate.
I stiffen at the thought, clenching my fists. I don’t like it when I let my mind wander back. I don’t want to remember the lessons. They make me feel . . . helpless and weak, as if I’m not in control of who I am.
I watch Ian sleep a few minutes more, hands pressed close beside me. His breath puffs out in two second increments, the softness of it barely touching my ears. Once, his eyelashes—thick and full—flutter like a bird just startled from its nest, and then still into sleep again. The urge to touch him—just one tiny caress—finally wins out, and I relax my balled fist. Tentatively, I raise my hand and let it hover above his cheek, tempted, but not yet daring to make contact. He seems perfect and harmless—and beautifully untouchable in his sleep.
In an instant, he sighs long and deep, and his eyes drift open lazily. With a silent cry, heart pounding, I draw my hand back quickly and tuck it under my chin. His expression clouds over, as if he’s trying to remember who I am. But then, he smiles, and reaches up with the heel of his hand to rub his eye.
“Hi,” he breathes out sleepily.
The morning light has reached the mat, and I see his face well now. His sleepy eyes are blue—the bluest I’ve ever seen, clear and twinkly. They make me happy, simply seeing them, and I smile too, and it feels good to do so. But when he gasps, and lifts himself slightly, my smile fades.
“What?”
Have I grown two heads in my sleep? Is there something in my teeth? How could that be? I haven’t eaten anything since the porridge yesterday morning.
On cue, my stomach rumbles. I clench my fists against it.
“Wow,” he whispers.
“What?” I repeat.
“You’re . . . beautiful.”
He raises up on one elbow and gazes down at me, and his eyes crinkle. I melt against the mat, and he hesitates, thinking, before his fingers come up to graze my face, ever so lightly. He rubs a gentle thumb over the swelling of duel bruises that define my cheek and jaw, and at the sensation—which sends gloriously wonderful shivers over every inch of me—I realize this is awkwardly uncomfortable: him hovering over me, me staring up at him, our eyes, our noses, our lips so close. My mate. I gather my wits, and in one quick motion I bound to my feet and stand facing him, my eyes wide.
He laughs softly and lies back. “Sorry Kate. That was not appropriate. But hey, I kept my promise.”
“Your promise?”
“I didn’t touch you. Well, until now.”
Relaxing at his easiness, I smile, relieved. “True. And thank you.”
“No problem. You aren’t really my type anyway.”
He winks. Not his type? He is sorely mistaken. Mona handpicked him to be my mate. Of course, I’m his type. Mona is never wrong about these things—of this I am sure. And if I had not come here under duress with the sole purpose of defying her to the death, I might be disposed to prove it.
Ian stretches and sits up tall on the mat. I study him carefully. He shed his ripped shirt at some point in the night, and his neck with its pulsing beauty tapers off into lean but strong chest muscles that ripple when he moves. I redden, aware, once again, that he makes me feel strange. I’ve never seen a man before—not like this—shirtless and rugged, and my pulse quickens. If I’d been willing to follow the rules . . .
I swallow and avert my eyes. But I’m not willing. Not ever.
The sudden rattling of the gate startles me, and I whirl. A jailer pulls the door wide, sets down a tray with two bowls, and pushes the gate shut again. She’s not the woman who brought me here last night, and she doesn’t spare a glance toward me or Ian as she refastens the gate and pushes the cart of breakfast bowls on to the next cave.
“Oh goody.” Ian’s voice echoes behind me. “Breakfast. I sure hope it’s that deliciously flavorless mush again. If it isn’t, I just might have to protest.”
I cast a glance at him over my shoulder, see the smirk on his face clearly. He is full of sarcasm, this one. Returning my attention to the bowls, my stomach growls fiercely. My hunger pangs are finally catching up with me. I take a step and peer into the first bowl.
It is porridge. Only I can tell instantly it isn’t the porridge I eat every day in the Village. This is darker and much coarser. And there is no molasses to sweeten it. I bend, frowning, and dip a finger into the thickness. Ian is right. The flavor is bland and tasteless, but it is something to eat regardless. I pick up the bowl and ease down next to the wall.
Ian shakes his head laughing. “Let me guess. You like that stuff.”
I shrug. “It’s food. Better than starving.”
He makes a face that causes his eyes to crinkle again, and he scoops up his own bowl. Then he slides down the wall opposite me. He plunges two fingers into the porridge and scoops it into his mouth.
“Mmmmm. Good.”
Ian licks the tips of his fingers dramatically and flings the bowl onto the tray. I jump and my own bowl clatters to the floor, dumping half the porridge in the dirt. Shrieking, I lunge to retrieve the rest before it spills, too. When the bowl is safely in my hands again, I glare at Ian. He laughs.
“Sorry Kate. But don’t you people at least believe in spoons around here? And a little sugar maybe?”
I narrow my eyes at him. I’ve read about spoons and other eating utensils, but I’ve never seen one. How would he know about such things? And here he is again, insulting me and “my people” and disassociating himself completely from the Village. I refuse to answer him.
Ian whistles sharply through his teeth. “Oh boy. I guess if we’re going to have to spend the next three days together, I’d better learn to play nice, huh? Okay. I apologize.”
He stands. I watch him carefully. He stretches dramatically and turns roughly toward the gate. He grabs it with both hands, shaking hard. It creaks, but it doesn’t budge. He leans his forehead against the bars. His fingers tense, he shakes the bars again, and his breathing becomes husky and rapid. He grits his teeth before he bellows and shakes the bars a third time.
“Aaagggghhh!”
His growl is angry, and he slams a fist against the gate in a fury.
“I can’t take another minute of his stinking hole!”
I shrink against the wall, my eyes wide with terror. This, I didn’t expect. Not after how gentle Ian seemed earlier in all his groggy beauty, and his actions set the wheels turning in my mind.
His movements are agitated as if he’s transformed into a confined animal, pacing the length of its cage, longing for the wild with no hope of gaining it. The stock? They have no such desire, do they? They do not fight against the Pit. It’s all they know, raised from birth to perform this duty alone. No, they do not fight.
Ian’s behavior carries a different message. I contemplate this a moment. Could he really be from another village? Is it possible that what he claims is true, and he’s been dumped here against his will, facing his worst nightmare?
; I want to deny it, but logic prevents me.
Confused, I sit still, as quiet as air, and watch him pace the very short length of the cave—two steps one way, two the other. He runs a hand through his messy hair and furrows his brow. He mumbles to himself and shakes his fists at nothing at all. And I grow more and more wary.
Finally, Ian sighs and sinks onto his mat, burying his head in his hands. In a minute, his shoulders shake violently, shuddering his body, and I know he’s crying.
My heart softens. I’ve rarely seen anyone cry. Life in the Village is rough. Crying gets you nowhere.
Yesterday, crying had been a waste of my own time.
Despite this, I can still feel compassion for the hurting. And I feel it for Ian, sobbing silently in the corner. I see how truly helpless he feels. In three days, I can walk out of here, free to return to my hogan in the Village, coming to the Pit only occasionally—once a week maybe. But Ian is trapped.
I have a sudden foreboding that he will not survive this life. Stock or no stock, he will reach insanity—if he hasn’t already—or he will die. I tremble at the thought. I don’t know Ian well—I’m not even certain whether I like him—but I surely do not want him to die at my expense, which is exactly how I would feel if he did. After all, he’s been chosen especially for me. Chosen. He’s here . . . because of me.
I watch him for several more minutes before I stand and take two quiet steps in his direction. Unsure, I reach out a quivering hand and lightly touch his head. He twitches beneath my fingers and shrinks away, turning toward the wall, lying on his side. My hand falls away, and I stand over him.
He curls his long legs into his chest and tugs the blanket over his head. Soon, I hear his even breathing. I don’t know whether he sleeps or not, but I leave him, move to the gate, and sit down in a patch of sunlight, staring at the freedom beyond.
More than anything, I want out of this cage, and I’ve been here only one night. Three days is trivial compared to what the stock endures. But already, I feel stifled.
What does two weeks feel like, or an entire lifetime for that matter?