The Last Boss' Daughter

He has to. All my hopes are pinned on this stranger.

“When’s the last time they gave you any water?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer. “Don’t waste your energy.”

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, making a more focused effort not to tremble. It doesn’t work, but hey, I tried.

I understand, though. The helplessness bugs me, too—our absolute dependence on someone hopefully saving us—it has to be even harder for him.

“When’s the last time you depended on someone?” I ask.

I glance at him, unsure how he’ll receive such an out-of-the-blue question. Especially one so potentially vulnerable.

A moment passes before he answers. “I can’t remember.”

My eyebrows rise and I send him a searching frown. “What do you mean?” I ask.

His head shakes slightly but he seems pensive, maybe sifting through memories, maybe just unwilling to share. I wish I could tell. Maybe it doesn’t matter, because Ryder won’t come and Pietro will kill both of us before it all ends, and we’ll both die with no one ever knowing either of our stories—and no one who really cares to, anyway.

Back at the cabin I probably wouldn’t have pushed, but here, now, it doesn’t make sense to hold back.

“You might as well tell me," I say lightly, despite our situation. "I promise I'll still find you mysterious for however long we get to live."

Ignoring my morbid, possibly true, joke, he says, "I'm not trying to be mysterious, I just... I really can't remember. I must've been a kid," he says, like it's a guess. "I don't know. I always remember knowing I couldn't depend on people. I tried to, I guess, but it always turned out to be a stupid-ass idea and eventually I stopped. I guess I gave people chances to prove me wrong after that, openings, but... it never happened. So I don't really know how you classify that."

I ponder his response for a moment, some of it feeling familiar. I had left openings for my mother, even after my sham wedding, for her to get back in if she tried. But she never tried. At least, not in a way that would've worked. If she had admitted wrongdoing and apologized, maybe then I would've been more receptive, but she skipped those crucial steps.

"I take it you didn't have great pa

rents," I say.

"Didn't really have any. I had a mother for a minute, but she wasn't ready for a kid and dumped me off with her father and step-mom. I pretty much took care of myself and just slept there. I used to steal her cigarettes and trade them to these little assholes at school for their lunch or money—whatever they had that I wanted."

That hurts my heart a little, but I don't show any response since I don't want him mistaking it for pity. "How old were you?"

"Nine, ten, eleven. In sixth grade they got divorced. She moved away. He moved us into this little apartment above a repair shop. I started working down there under the table and learning the way of things. It got easier then. I didn't like stealing so I liked having my own money."

"Did you live with him until you graduated?"

"Nah. He met some other woman and moved in with her. I stayed in the apartment above the shop and worked there until I was old enough to enlist."

I sort of smile. "I knew you were a service guy."

"Once upon a time," he verifies. "Anyway, then I was an adult, so..."

"So you never really had anyone."

"Not really."

"What about relationships? Any serious ones?"

"I don't really have the lifestyle for it," he says, which doesn't surprise me. I am surprised, a moment later, when he says, "Eh, that's an excuse. I wasn't so married to the lifestyle I couldn't have changed it, I just... I don't know. It isn't easy to get close to people."

Tenderness surges until I feel like I'm drowning in it. I try to keep a lid on it, but God, I just want to hug him.

"You feel close to me?" I ask, ignoring the scary rush of adrenaline I feel just asking, opening myself up that way.

"You have to ask that?"