low laugh escapes his lips. A smile pulls at my lips from the sound of his strange and hypnotic happiness.
A stake to the heart might kill anyone.
I can’t suppress the quiet laugh that bubbles up inside me. He’s different than I thought he would be. Not at all the misanthrope society described him as.
A midnight monster… He isn’t a monster at all.
There’s a short silence surrounding us. I try not to break it and relax into the stress-free world we just created. A world where things aren’t always so serious. But I can’t. As much as I try to ignore my other questions and to not press for more information, they push against my thoughts. I try not to bombard him with all the questions circling my mind. But one question stands out among hundreds.
I speak in the lowest whisper I can, just trying to force the words from my throat. Finally choosing blatant honesty in hopes of having it returned.
“Can I trust you?”
He looks up at me quickly, like I need to be sure of his answer. Instead of nodding or writing against my palm he tenses when he speaks.
“Yes,” he says before clearing his throat.
I lift my hand, and he watches me with intense eyes as I bring my hand to the light scar at his neck. It’s jagged but soft against my fingertips. It healed smoothly.
With his eyes closed, he takes my hand in his while I brush my thumb against his jaw. The imperfect scar is so strange and foreign on his warm, flawless skin.
“If it hurts this badly, why do you speak?” I ask in awe. Thinking back to every time he spoke to me with the chip in his throat.
I remove my hand from his neck, realizing how inappropriate it was for me to touch him for no reason. He picks up my palm and writes again.
I don’t usually.
His response leaves me quiet and unsure of what to say. How awful it must be to never voice your opinion or speak your feelings. My stomach drops at the thought of what it must be like. Of the pain he has suffered from basic human contact.
“That’s terrible.”
It could be worse.
After his words are written, he continues to trace circles into my palm with his thumb until I wonder if I should leave. I came to ask him questions about my mother, but now I want to stay to ask him questions about himself.
“I should go,” I say, moving to the edge of the bed to stand.
He tightens his hold on my hand and doesn’t let go, making me glance back at his pale gray eyes. He writes against my wrist, making me shiver.
Stay.
This small word tugs at my heart harder than the sad confessions he’s already admitted.
“I—I don’t think it would be appropriate,” I say politely.
My thoughts instantly drift to my mother standing just downstairs. How, during the silence, I can hear her speak through the old wooden floor.
I meant. I—
He pauses looking for words.
“I just want to get to know you. The real you. Not the you your mother portrays. Not the silent you your mother likes,” he says in a raspy tone before closing his eyes and swallowing hard.
His words make my stomach twist in pain and make me think about if anyone really sees the real me. I sit down without hesitation. I already know my mother tries to control everything, not in a cruel way, but in an overly-protective-mother sense. Something else pulls at my thoughts.
“Why do you want to know me?” I ask, my eyes never leaving his beautiful face.
He stops to think about his response. The luxury of not having a voice, I suppose, is never speaking thoughtlessly.
His lips part for a moment, before hesitantly replying. “Because you treat me like I’m human. Not like an animal to control or someone who deserves what he’s gotten but like someone who actually feels the pain of repression.”
He was repressed. I’m oppressed. In a way. Told what to do and who to spend my life with, but then having those plans pulled out from under me without explanation. I’ll help Forty-four as much as I can, because in a way, I wish I had someone to help me.
I think about his words, but I still feel uneasy and afraid of my next question. A question that never occurred to me before now.
“My unity partner went missing last year. His name was Micah Rixton. Do you know him?” My throat tightens with