it. On yourself. Can you agree to that?”
I stare at his black silhouette. “Yes,” I whisper.
“I’m going to get some supplies and another gun.” He moves about the dark room gathering things, unzipping and zipping the backpacks. And then he is beside the bed. His hand finds mine, and something comes around my wrist. A tiny light glows, showing that it is 2:08 a.m. I am wearing his watch.
“Put your shoes on and leave them on, even if you sleep. If you have to run, you won’t have time to waste putting them on. And make sure your backpack is always ready to go. If I’m not back by seven a.m. tomorrow—roughly twenty-nine hours from now—go to the north gate and turn yourself in. They’ll get you to the lab.”
His words jolt me. “Wait. If you’re not back? You mean, if something happens to you and you die?”
“Yeah, something like that.” He stands in the small patch of moonlight shining in through the window and pulls off his shirt. Taking the Kevlar vest from the floor, he zips it around his chest, and then puts his shirt back on. Next, he places something on the bed beside me. I reach out and feel dense, heavy metal. I sit up, afraid.
“You’re not taking your rifle? But what if—”
His fingers cover my lips. “Fo. Keep yourself safe. I have my Taser. I’ll be fine,” he whispers.
I back away from his hand. “But what if you’re not?” I cry.
He turns and walks away, and I can practically see the dark shadow of death marching on his heels. Before he can open the hotel room door, I scramble from the bed and run to him, throwing myself between him and the exit, wrapping my arms around his neck. Tears fill my eyes, so I press my face against his shoulder. His arms encircle me and squeeze.
“Fo, I’ll come back,” he says. I sniffle and press my face harder against him. He tries to pull away, but I won’t let go. His hand finds my chin and forces it up, his thumb sweeping over my wet cheek. “Tears? For me?” he whispers.
I can’t speak—just stare at his shadowed face.
“Fiona, I …” His fingers slide to the nape of my neck. Our noses bump and then his lips touch mine, finishing his sentence better than any words could have. His hands pull me closer and his lips press harder, start moving on top of mine. My mouth moves with his, my breath flows with his, my heart hammers against his. My salty tears make their way onto our tongues and are forgotten.
I push my hands under his backpack and run them over his back, over the unyielding Kevlar vest, up to his shoulders, and slip them beneath his sleeves against his warm skin. He groans, and his hands pull against the small of my back. Beneath his sleeves, I trace his muscles, find the teeth-mark scar and freshly scabbed bullet wound, and Bowen pulls his mouth from mine and gasps. He rests his forehead on mine and frames my face with his hands. They smell like metal and soap and shaving cream.
“Fiona, I …” The words disappear, their ending unspoken. I find his lips with mine, as if I’ve known how to kiss my entire life, and his hands tangle in my butchered hair. I taste Bowen and fresh tears, yet I’m no longer crying. I take my hands from his shoulders and press them to his face. Tears are streaming over his cheeks, down to our mouths.
I pull my mouth from his, and he buries his face against my neck, holding me tight. His body shudders against mine, and his tears come faster, soaking my skin. I cradle his head, my hand moving over his hair.
“It’s okay, Dreyden,” I whisper. “It’s going to be okay.” My words make his body shake.
He pulls away and peers down at me, his face nothing more than a silhouette in the darkness. “No, it’s not okay,” he says, voice ragged. “In my dream tonight, you were captured by raiders. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t save you. And I couldn’t bring myself to kill you. They …” He takes a deep breath and pulls me against him. “You might as well have eaten my heart straight from my living body. I would rather die a thousand times at your hands than see you captured. Even if you eat my heart. Because you already own it.”
He holds me