“Just shut up.” His face is carefully blank as he carries me inside and sets me on my feet inside a small living room/kitchen. There’s a fire already going in the fireplace, but other than a couch, a table, and a rug, the place is bare, completely devoid of decoration.
I think he just…did he carry me over the threshold? Like some kind of bride?
I feel a little sick at the thought. It makes me think of honeymoons and painful sex. I cross my arms over my stomach.
Something in my expression dims his smile. He scratches the back of his head. “Why don’t you see if there’s anything to eat in the kitchen? I got a couple things I need to do.”
I touch the bruise on my face and nod. No sex. Not yet anyway.
I find a loaf of bread and a hunk of butter as well as a five-gallon container of water with a spout. There’s no fridge, of course, but it can’t be more than sixty degrees in here. Luckily water doesn’t spoil. I’m finding it harder to work my jaw. It’s more swollen now than it was, and it’s starting to hurt worse. I chew carefully, glad that this time it’s not jerky on the menu. Axel’s outside doing something, I don’t know what, and I eye the ugly blue couch with the cabbage-rose print. Soft. I haven’t felt anything soft in what seems like months. There’s a matted yellow afghan hanging over the back. It smells clean, though, and so does the couch. It’s not long before I’m curled up for a nap.
I smell vanilla. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but it feels like I could lie here for ten years. I haven’t smelled vanilla in I don’t know how long, though, and this brings me to my feet. I toss a glance into the mini kitchen, but I don’t see anything cooking on the old-style wood stove.
The front door opens, and in comes Axel lugging a large bucket of steaming water.
“’Bout time you woke up,” he says as he passes through the room. He smirks, ruining the whole effect of the rebuke.
“What—” I wince and press a hand to my swollen face. The skin is tight and my cheek is fat, and I feel about as attractive as a walrus.
“Thought you could use a bath,” he says, making a left into a room I haven’t yet seen.
“Thanks a lot.” Now I’m ugly and I stink.
I follow him inside what turns out to be a small bathroom. There’s a shallow tub, a deep sink, and a composting toilet. Since Axel is toting water in and out via bucket, I assume we don’t have running water. We didn’t have any in Sadie’s Bend, either, but what with all the engineering that went into this place, I was sort of hoping.
The look he gives me is dark and quelling. Now that he’s finished adding this bucketful, there’s a good six inches of water in the tub. Steam rises up.
I sniff. “Is that vanilla?”
He frowns. “Found some of that old shower-gel stuff at the exchange. I didn’t know what kind you’d like.”
In point of fact, I only like vanilla in my food. Vanilla-scented anything—I hate it. But holy bats, the guy’s actually trying to please me. “Did you do all this for me?”
He flicks me a look and turns away, blushing. Blushing, for God’s sake. “I figured, you know, you had such a shit day and all.”
I nod, but I’m nervous. Is he going to bathe me like I’m some kind of sex toy? Is he prepping me for another round of painful sex?
He nods at a faded navy-blue towel balanced on the sink. “That’s yours. When you’re done, let me know and I’ll take my turn.”
He cups my face, inspects my cheek, and gets another one of those I’m-going to-fucking-kill-someone looks. Then to my utter astonishment he gives it a soft caress before he turns and leaves me to myself.
He shuts the door. Softly.
Share bathwater? Ick! No one, I don’t care who he is, should have to sit in water where someone’s dirty crotch’s just been. I strip off my clothes as fast as I can, grab the washcloth, and give myself a thorough scrub down before I even think of lowering myself into the water.
The heat drives into my bones and smooths away my tension. This feels rolling-your-eyes-back, luxury-hotel good. When I dip my hair in the water and let the heat sink into my scalp, I’m almost ready to cry. There’s no shampoo, so I use more of that vanilla stuff to scrub my head. I end up using the toothbrush cup to scoop up water and rinse my hair over the composting toilet. Gross, I know, but I don’t want to leave him greasy-dirty-hair bathwater.
Resigning myself to another night of torture by enormous dick, I give my crotch another scrub. If I’m going to give him the thank you I’m sure he’s expecting, I might as well not smell like fermented ass.
Why am I being so nice? I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that other than him, there’s no one left on the planet who would do for me what he did today. I owe him this, at least.
I didn’t think to get anything at the exchange to wear to bed, so I lie here in a T-shirt, panties, and a pair of socks. That fire stove does an okay job of heating the place, but I hate being cold. Hate it. I tuck the covers up to my chin and wait for Axel and his huge dick to get here.
He comes in carrying a handful of candles and wearing a pair of boxers. It’s the first time I’ve seen him this naked. I spot a scar on his upper left chest. Did someone knife him? Shoot him? He’s got those tribal-looking tattoos running back over his shoulder and most of the way down his arm, and he’s got a ripped torso with this vee that points down into his underwear.
“Where did you get candles?”
“One of the towns, they keep a ton of bees.”
“You guys should negotiate for a whole hive and bring one here.”
“Are you going to carry it?”
Bees? “No.”
He lights the candles with a knife and flint and then perches beside me on the bed. “Take your shirt off.”
I breathe deep. Here goes. I pull the tee over my head and toss it to the side. He runs a finger from my collarbone to the tip of my breast. His touch is light and I tingle. He cups both breasts and rubs his thumbs over the tips, sending a sweep of warmth to my crotch. But then he backs off. He pushes my hair away and inspects my face. “This hurt much?”
“Yeah,” I admit. Come on, I want to say. Let’s get this over with.
Twin slashes appear between his brows. “Flip over onto your stomach.”
I stare at him, not sure what it is he’s planning on doing.
He makes an unmistakable roll-over sign with his finger.
I do as he asks, but I squeeze my eyes shut. I hope, I really hope, he’s not into that anal stuff. I don’t know much about it, but it sounds creepy-wrong. It’s bad enough that he puts that thing in my pussy.
Axel starts with soft, slow hand strokes up my back. I figure he’s just trying to calm me down. It goes on for a few minutes, though, and it sinks in that he’s giving me an actual massage. When fifteen minutes pass and he moves on down to my butt, I figure okay, now he’s going to rip off the undies and do the deed. He doesn’t. He digs his fingers into my thighs, and I fully expect him to spread them wide and go for the gold. By this time I’m relaxed enough that I might not even resist. It’s when he gets to my feet and spends a full ten minutes on each one that I feel like a cat getting its back scratched.
“Oh my God, Axel, where did you learn to do this?”
“Feel good?” he asks softly. It’s almost like he…feels bad for me?
I moan contentedly. My eyes are shut, but the flicker of the candle flame still dances under my lids, hypnotic and sexy.
He slides his hands up my body and begins on my shoulders again. It feels so good I could practically meow. He could do just about anything with my body he wanted, and I’d be okay with it. Every once in a while, my lover presses a kiss into my neck, my shoulder, the sole of my foot. It’s pure seduction mixed with cuddly comfort, and I’m not sure at what point I fall asleep.
When I wake up later, my T-shirt’s still gone, my socks are gone, but I’m wearing my panties. The candles are out, and I’m cuddled against a nearly naked man who gives off more heat than a
gas furnace. He didn’t even try to fuck me. I don’t understand. What’s he up to?
CHAPTER SEVEN
“What’s this?” Axel stares down at his plate like he doesn’t believe the food could be edible.
“Turkey and mashed potatoes. What’s wrong? Don’t you like turkey?” My stomach twists. I probably should have asked.
“Where’d it come from?”
“The oven?” I wrap myself in my arms. I’ve been here two weeks, and I feel like everything I try to do is wrong.
“You made this.” Deadpan, he gives me the full-on ice of his blue eyes.
“Yes.”
He looks at me like I just did something really weird as he scoops up a massive forkful of the potatoes.
I slouch as a shiver of failure creeps up my back. I want to go home.
Axel frowns and digs into the turkey next. Me, I just stare at my plate. They assigned me to work Mia’s off shift at the exchange. It’s my first real job, and I don’t even know what half of the merchandise is. Some guy came in earlier today and asked for a maul. I just stared at him like some idiot.
“Why?” Axel’s brow wrinkles, and he’s staring at me all strange. Or maybe he’s irritated. I don’t know.
“Why what?” I’m close to tears.
He waves a hand over the table. “All this. Why?”
“Why do you think?” I plunk my fork back onto the table. “It’s what people do. They eat dinner.”
“You could have got it at the dining hall.”
I can’t take it. I can feel my eyes tearing up. I’m feeling incredibly alone and totally out of my element. I have since I got here. Axel’s doing whatever marauders do during the day, and I’m trying to learn how to do math without a calculator. I’m usually in bed before he gets back, and we lie there without touching all night. It’s like I disgust him now.
I gather my plate and stalk to what counts as a fridge. I’m about to shove the meal into the ice-box thingy when Axel catches my arm.
“Hey, I ain’t mad,” he says with a frown.
I’m clenching my teeth. I don’t want to fall apart; I really don’t. “Okay.”
I want my mother. I want airplanes and sunshine and green grass. I want to be around people who like me.
I can feel the heat of his stare, but I know if I look at him, I’ll just feel worse. After a moment he sighs and returns to the table.
I clean the tiny work area. This morning I washed all the clothes and sheets in the hand-crank washer and—you guessed it—hand-crank roll thingy that wrings out the water. I hung them near the stove, and by the time I got back from the exchange, they were dry. I grab the folded laundry and cut across the room toward the hall.
“What’s all that?” he demands.
“Laundry,” I mumble.
His fork clatters to the plate. “What else did you do?”
“Look, I’m doing the best I can!” I lose it then, and I stalk from the room before he can see me cry. I just don’t want a witness, you know?
Axel catches up with me. He grabs me again, spilling the clean clothes to the floor.
“Damn it!”
Axel steps back. “Fuck. Shit. I’m sorry, Mel. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying.” But my nose is running, my voice is thick, and my eyes are about to spill.
“Aw, man.” He pulls me into a hug. “I just…no one’s ever done stuff like this for me.”
“What stuff?”
“Making me dinner, folding my shorts. Hell, I been doing all that since I was ten.”
“Well maybe you should have told me that. I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s just…I, ah…I’m not used to people being nice. Doing things for me.”
“Your mom didn’t—”
“She died of an overdose when I was fifteen. Been on my own ever since.”
A chill starts in my chest and shoots up my scalp. “What about your dad?”
He grimaces. “I visited him in prison a couple times when I was a kid. After he got out, I don’t know where he went.”
The concept of having parents like that is so completely foreign to me that I have no idea what to say. I can’t even imagine what a kid does when he realizes he won’t have anything for lunch. What did he do? Eat chips?
“I ain’t mad,” he says again. “That dinner, all this, no one’s ever…done that.”
His tone, that soft, uncomfortable wonder—it tells me everything he can’t say.
I nod at the front room. “So, it doesn’t suck?”
I’ve been cooking for Pastor North for years. If I’ve been slowly poisoning him all this time, he’s been too polite to tell me.
A smile picks at the corners of his lips. “Best damn steak I ever had.”
“It’s turkey, you ass.” But he’s made me smile.
He smiles out the corner of his mouth, but then he blinks, the smile fades, and he leans into me ever so slightly. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I think.
He takes a step back. “You going to finish your dinner?”
My rotten day is still half curdling my stomach. “No, I sort of pigged out on the potatoes before you got here.”
He averts his gaze and retreats another step. “Okay. Sorry,” he says, indicating the pile at my feet.
I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
I bend down and begin picking up the clothes. A moment later he returns to the front room.
For a guy who was hell-bent on getting his dick inside me, he sure did lose interest fast. He’s acted like I have herpes ever since that guy went after me. I’m not sure if it’s because the guy touched me—you know, that way—or if it’s because Axel had to kill him, but I’m positive he regrets claiming me.
Right now I feel like a polar bear adrift on an iceberg with no land in sight.
I can’t stop brooding over what Axel’s life must have been like growing up. He’s so powerful he looks like he could rip apart an ox. I don’t know if anyone’s shown him a spark of love his whole life. Dad in prison, mom an addict—what kind of childhood is that? I think about my own parents. They were both lawyers, but my mom quit working to stay home with me. Dance lessons, piano lessons, birthday parties don’t even cover it. They loved me. They showed me in thousands of little ways.
No wonder the guy has a prison record. I don’t blame him. I’ll bet before he could even walk, he knew that if he needed something, he had to take it.
Just like he took me. I spread the yellowed white sheets over the bed. Our bed. The place where we turn our backs to each other night after night as if the other person isn’t even there.
Part is my fault. I’ve made it perfectly clear I don’t want him sticking that huge thing in me. Guess that adds to the so-not-worth-it aspect of having me around. He’s been kind about it, but he has to be thinking “Melody” is a huge disappointment.
I finish the bed and put the clothes away. Then I take a good, hard look at myself in the mirror. My hair needs washing again, and even though I scrub down every morning, I know I probably stink of sweat. I don’t wear makeup, but then no one does. I wouldn’t even know where to get any. The sour expression looking back at me, however, is completely my fault. Who am I, Melody or Misery?
I’m lonely. I have been for years. I need to do something about this or I’ll die inside. Either that or I’ll get all wrapped up in self-pity, forget to take a pot off the stove, and burn the house down. I could get pneumonia because I just don’t give a damn if what I’m wearing isn’t warm enough. Big girls don’t act like this. They adapt.
Axel is sitting on the couch sharpening an ax as I heat a bucket of water on the stove. The thing looks like it could take a man’s head clean off. I hope for my sake it’s for chopping down trees. I don’t ever want to see him cleaning bloody guck off the thing.
While he’s busy, I carry the bucket to the bathroom and do my best to scrub away the stink and sweat. I know it can’t
be anywhere near as good as a real bath, but I don’t want to bug him, not when things are so weird between us. When I’m clean as I think I can get, I wash my hair and change into something fresh.
I take a comb with me into the front room. Axel looks up and does a double take. I clutch the comb to my chest.
“I hope you don’t mind.” I’m wearing one of his shirts, and it hangs almost to my knees.
He sets the sandstone aside like he’s forgotten all about it and shakes his head.
I plop down in front of the fire, which is what passes for a hair dryer in the apocalypse. I tuck my feet under me and begin the long process of digging knots out of my hair. I need conditioner badly. The scrape, scrape, scrape of the sandstone tells me Axel is sharpening his tools again. Every so often, though, he pauses.
I catch sight of him out of the corner of my eye, and he stares at me with such hunger that I feel the shock of it all through my body. I forget all about my hair. I moisten my lips, and I can’t look away.
Axel ditches the ax, crosses the room, and kneels behind me. My heart thunders against my ribs as he takes the comb from my unresisting fingers.
I tense, expecting him to yank the comb through my thick, waist-length hair. Instead he begins with soft, subtle tugs on the ends and works his way up to the roots. It’s not sexy, but I’m so hungry to be touched that I close my eyes at the slow, deliberate strokes. Until that moment I didn’t realize how desperately I need to feel his hands on me.
The sound of his breathing soothes me. I suck in a breath and taste his scent—a mixture of wood smoke and musk. I get drunk on it, and all I want to do is lean back against him. He’s made it clear, though, that he doesn’t want that from me.
Not anymore.
“I guess that’ll do it.” The gentle tugging stops. Axel hands over the comb and gets to his feet.
I’m overwhelmed with blissful sadness, and for several pulses I’m silent.
“Thank you,” I mumble finally.
Axel averts his gaze as he collects his tools, and I get to my feet. It’ll take hours for my hair to dry this way, and right now all I want to do is climb between the sheets and brood. This is not the behavior of a square-jawed Amazon woman, I know. I’m not feeling very square-jawed.
Stolen Melody (Snow and Ash #2) Page 7
