“Like in the fairy tales? Lyric, the Alpha heir is battle-tested, hardened, forged into a living, breathing weapon so as to prepare him for the throne when the prime is taken by the Great Abyss. Fathom fights to make himself worthy before his nation. I know it sounds strange to you, but it makes total sense to him. These wounds are evidence of bravery and strength. None of the members of any of the clans would put their faith behind a person with unblemished skin.”
I look down at Fathom, my eyes tracing the old scars that intermingle with the fresh ones, yet despite the nicks and cuts and the bruised eye socket, he’s still very handsome.
“But it’s killing him,” I say.
“Normally, Fathom wouldn’t have to bear all this responsibility by himself. Prime are known for having many children, better to ensure a long rule, but all of Fathom’s brothers are dead. It also doesn’t help that he’s the son of a very unpopular leader.”
“I’m not a big fan of his father either.”
Terrance nods. “It was by their order that all these Alpha left the hunting grounds and came to the surface. Camping in a tent city on a dirty beach is humiliating. It flies in the face of their pride and thousands of years of traditions. His wife is a real piece of work too.”
“So that woman, the supermodel with the angry face I saw the day they came, that’s Fathom’s mother?”
He shakes his head, then eyes the door, watching for unexpected visitors. “No, that’s Minerva, his stepmother.”
“What happened to his real mother and his brothers?”
Terrance shakes his head “I don’t know. I’m not exactly in the in-crowd anymore. I don’t even know why they’re here, Lyric. I don’t know where the rest of our people are camped. They tell me nothing.”
“But you’re their spokesperson, right?” I say.
“I say what I’m told to say,” he says stiffly. “I’m not much more than a parrot. All this time I spent here, with Rochelle and Samuel, learning the rules of how people live, the little nuances, it’s dismissed as irrelevant. The queen told me I have the stink of the surface on me and can no longer be trusted.”
“But they sent you here! You did your job.”
“A lot of good it did me,” he says.
“Terrance, where did they take you?” I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m opening the door to our familiarity, which could be dangerous, but I can’t help myself. I love this man.
He looks at the floor and shuffles his feet. He fights back tears, and his clenched fists shake with fury. “Somewhere terrible.”
“I’m sorry.” No, I’m horrified. What happened to him?
“You’re the first person to say that to me, Lyric. I appreciate it very much.”
“We love you,” I whisper, though we’re all alone.
“Lyric, your family should leave,” he says. “Get as far away as you can.”
“We’re working on it.”
“Work faster.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tube of antibiotic cream. Handing it to me, he says, “Here, he can’t stop you if he’s unconscious,” then he leaves.
I stare down into Fathom’s exotic face, taking this rare moment of quiet to study his outline—along his face and neck, the curve of his ear, down his Adam’s apple, and on the razor’s edge of his jaw line. I memorize his hands and fingers, the rhythm of his rising chest. I lose myself in him, the solitude of the room, and the rumbling thunder that barks its empty threats from the sky. And then I realize what I’m doing and shake myself out of the trance. He’s not a local boy I can turn into a boyfriend. He’s dangerous and angry and full of fight. He’s not for me. Plus, I’m wasting time I could be using to save his life. I squeeze some of the ointment into my fingers, but something stops me. He needs it, yes, but these are his trophies. I don’t have to respect that or even understand, but it feels wrong to dismiss it. To nurse him against his will seems like a violation. It’s me trying to make him more human, to force him to adapt to my world. It’s me trying to change him, and I didn’t like it very much when the world did it to me.
I wipe the ointment on the floor, then put the cap back on the tube and shove it into my pocket just before he wakes. He’s startled at our intimacy and scampers out of my lap, like my touch burns his skin. He huddles on the other side of the room, near the tiny hole that lets him see through the window, and stays there until he calms down.
“Thank you,” he finally says.
“You’re welcome.”
“Did you bring any books?”
I point to the bag still lying on the floor. He picks it up and peers inside. Then he sits down beside me, looking into my face with a mixture of suspicion and gratitude and something that looks like fear. I read him The Snowy Day, but I keep losing my place. I’m distracted by his salty smell and radiating heat. It doesn’t help that his knee is pressed against mine.
Chapter Fourteen