He looks at me through slitted eyes, almost slumberous. “Why are you thanking me?”
“You saved me.”
He makes a coarse sound. “You really have no idea, do you?”
I turn away, fussing with the little tube of cream. “What?”
“How many men I’d kill for you.”
My eyes go wide. It’s a horrible measurement, the number of deaths that would be on his hands, the amount of violence he’d commit. And yet it’s a strange comfort too, knowing he would do that for me.
I throw away the bloody pieces and pack up the first-aid kit, using the excuse not to meet his eyes. “When will we go?”
“Tomorrow. Well, today. When you’ve had a chance to rest. I’ll come to the door at noon.”
Then I have to look at him. “Where will you go until then?”
“I’ll sleep in my car.”
“It’s freezing out there!”
“That’s where I slept last night.”
I try not to think about him outside my apartment while I didn’t know. How long has he been in Alaska, waiting for me, watching? And why does the thought make me feel safe instead of scared? “You can stay here.”
His eyes narrow. “With you?”
“I mean it’s nothing comfortable. Just the floor. But there’s a blanket. And basic heating.”
I’m not offering a blanket or heating. His car would probably be more comfortable on both counts. I’m offering my body. Maybe I should fight him, but I’m about to put the life of myself and my daughter into his hands. I want him to be as sympathetic to us as possible.
He studies me. Does he see my fear? My desire to please him? My mind is a mass of scripture notes. Already I’m trying to think of what he’d want. It was one thing when I planned to run away. Now that I’m hitching our fates to his, it’s in my best interest to make him happy.
I dig out the blanket I sleep on, which was rolled up for travel, from my suitcase. Only when I throw it out over the carpet do I realize how pathetic it looks. Sleeping on the floor seems strange to most people, but it’s all I’ve ever done. The few times we stopped at a motel, I could never get comfortable on a bed. I ended up on the floor by the end of the night.
“I hope this is okay,” I whisper, flushed.
His gaze roams past the sad makeshift bed to the corner, where the carpet curls up. To the ceiling, where leaks have turned the white plaster black. “It’s not okay,” he says gruffly.
My hands clench together. “I know Delilah deserves better.”
His eyes narrow. “And you.”
I’m not sure what I deserve, but it can’t be good. By the rules of Harmony Hills I’d go to hell for leaving, for working in a bar. And of course for helping them fight Leader Allen. And by the rules of this society, what little I’ve been able to quilt together from scraps of conversations, what Leader Allen did to me makes me a freak. I don’t belong anywhere.
All I can manage is a shrug.
He gestures to the bed. “What do you think is going to happen tonight?”
That’s a loaded question. I don’t want to whisper my fears aloud. I’m afraid I might be right. “Whatever you want?”
My voice curls up at the end, turning it into a question.
He grunts. “Get underneath the blanket.”
This part I’m used to. It wasn’t so cold in Harmony Hills, but I know how to lie on my back, how to squeeze my eyes shut. I know how to stay completely silent no matter what he does.
There’s a soft rush of air as he lowers himself next to me. I feel his size like a looming shadow in the room, as large as a mountain. I’m a trickling valley stream, about to be crushed. Except he doesn’t lay his body over mine. He lies next to me. He pulls me close, until I’m half on top of his body, my head pillowed by his chest.