Archetype (8 page)

I
jolt upright, gasping. I turn to find I am alone in the bath Declan prepared for me. The fading light outside is wrong, and cold winter air seeps through the windows. My mind floats in the remains of the dream and the shock of reality confuses me.

The room is warm, not hot, and the light is graying and yellow, not orange. There are no slatted shutters. There is no man relaxing behind me speaking of our future children. A man whose face remains hidden from me but is most definitely Tucker from the beach dream. And as impossible as it sounds, his absence shreds my heart and twists my stomach. His absence feels like death. If not for the missing brand, I might believe I have a right to this grief. But it belongs to Wade, whoever she is.

I grip the edge of the tub and press my forehead to the porcelain surface. I breathe deeply of the soothing scents and tell myself to calm down. I am on the verge of a possible breakdown and need to get my head on straight. I cannot show this weakness to Declan or he will tell Dr. Travista. I cannot live in the hospital again. I will not.

I coat my cool face with the warm water and pull my knees into my chest. The only sound in the room now comes from the single heavy drops
ping
ing in my bathwater. It is too close to the dream, so I stand and let the water fall from my body in a shower. I flip the drain switch with my toe and climb out.

I leave the bathroom in the soft red robe and find a navy blue turtleneck and jeans lying on the bed with a set of nice undergarments. I flush thinking about how Declan picked out the flesh-toned silk underwear and bra.

A knock sounds on the door. “Emma?”

I jump and tighten my robe. “I am just getting dressed. I will be out in a moment.”

“Okay.”

My hands shake as I slide the silk over my thighs. Hooking my bra with trembling fingers is an even bigger feat. After pulling the rest on, I am calmer and ready to face what is to come. I hope.

I press the button near the door and it slides aside with a soft
shiff.
The temperature difference is significant. Declan has started a fire that lights the entire living area. The heat warms my face and wraps around my bones.

Then I smell dinner. I am tired of the bland food I eat every day. I need something rich in flavor.

“
Mmmm,
” I moan and step toward the kitchen. “What did you make?”

Declan lifts a large pan and spoons food over two plates. “Asiago cheese tortellini.”

I bend over the nearest plate. A creamy sauce, mushrooms, and spinach cover the cheese-filled pasta shells. Steam coats my nose and chin.

Declan takes me by the shoulders, turns me, and points to a candle-lit table in a nook of sorts surrounded by now dark windows.

“Go sit,” he says and kisses the top of my head.

I go, ignoring all my negative thoughts about being so near the windows. I will make the most of my first night here and will report to Dr. Travista that I am still well enough to stay home.

The fire’s warmth reaches into the dining area, dispelling my fear of feeling the winter chill through the windows. I sit and run a palm over the soft white cloth covering the table. It is as pristine as everything else. Not a single wrinkle.

There are two tapered candles, but there is also a small vase of indigo flowers. I want to pick them up and bury my face in them but do not wish to risk petals falling anywhere.

Declan sets my plate on the table and sits diagonally from me. He watches me carefully. Maybe my nerves are apparent in my expression. Can he see the inkling of guilt that remains after the dream I experienced only minutes ago?

I reach over and slide my hand into his. His fingers are warm and slightly damp from washing them. “Everything looks lovely,” I say, smiling.

He lets out a breath and a smile breaks out over his face. “Thank you.”

His fingers squeeze mine before releasing our hands to take up the heavy, ornate silverware. Its weight does not feel natural in my hand but I do not complain. For all I know, I picked this set out myself. The tablecloth could be pristine because I like it that way. Maybe I always set flowers out on the table. Maybe I wanted this house and all its windows.

I’d rather live in a well,
She says.

Not now,
I tell Her.

 • • • 

Declan picks up our empty plates and stands. “Go sit by the fire and relax.”

“Let me help you with the dishes.”

His head nods toward the living area, a tiny smile playing over his mouth. “Go.”

“You are doing so much,” I say, taking the steps down.

“I don’t mind taking care of you. You’re worth it.”

I pick up the fleece blanket automatically and sit angled on the couch so I can watch Declan. His focus is on his task, which sets a crease between his eyebrows and his lips into a fine line. He clearly does not like this menial task, but he does it without complaint.

He must sense me watching because he looks up from where he wipes the island countertop and the creases and hard edges vanish. He smiles and it is brilliant. I wonder how such a handsome man can manage these two contrasting faces in the space of an eye blink.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing. I like watching you.”

He turns, still smiling, to finish. “I like you being here to watch me.”

A log snaps in the fireplace and startles me. I turn to watch the embers fly toward the protective screen and die out. The logs shift and reassemble.

Declan appears in front of the fire and removes the screen. He kneels and uses a poker to stoke the glowing embers below the logs until the fire blazes to twice its height, then adds two more small logs.

Finished, he brushes his hands together. “That should do us for a while. Is there anything you need?”

“No.”

I pat the seat beside me when he looks unsure of where to sit. He angles into the corner and props a knee up behind me so I can sit between his legs. I hesitate at first, recalling the dream in the tub, but decide to go with it. He is my husband. Why should I not sit this close to him?

I turn and lie down on his chest. His arms fold around me automatically, his hands seeking mine. He links the fingers of his manicured right hand with my left and I stare down at our skin. Mine a shade lighter. No branded hearts.

“Why do we not have marks?” I ask and feel Her annoyance. I have asked something before She was able to stop me.

“Marks?”

“The linked hearts.”

His chest stills under me for so long I worry enough to turn. He stares at me through narrowed eyes but does not appear angry.

“You said ‘we,’” he says carefully. “As in both of us?”

I twist slightly to look at him. “Yes.”

Declan’s eyes focus on the fire across the room, his thumb absently rubbing my skin. “Men don’t mark their skin. As for you, I chose to leave you unbranded. You are not in the city long, if ever, and so there is no need to worry about another man claiming you.”

“Claiming me?”

His dark eyebrows pinch together and his eyelids narrow. “You remember the brand, but not why?”

I twist my legs around farther to sit more comfortably. “It must be part of the process. Some things I know, while others are still in the dark place with my past. I wish I could explain it.”

But the truth is you only know because of a dream you can’t admit to,
She says.
You have to nip this line of questioning in the bud. It will only lead to trouble. Trust me.

“There is a very specific law,” he begins slowly, “that says a man cannot take another man’s property. His wife. The brand signifies that she is taken. A ring can be forgotten, while a brand can never be removed.”

I do not like this word “property.” It causes a rise of heat to flush my cheeks. “I am your property?”

He shakes his head, his nostrils flaring. “You are here by your own free will, but out there”—he points over the couch toward the obsidian night—“you are my property because it will save you from another man taking you as his own.”

There are too many questions and too many pieces to put together. I cannot keep quiet as She asks. “What is the reason for this fear? Why would another man want me so badly?”

“There are not enough women to go around,” he says. The threat of anger in his voice seems to be diffusing. “And even less to bear children.”

I recall the things Dr. Travista told me, in addition to things I have learned from my dreams, and the pieces finally fall together. “You purchased me.”

His gaze looks past me to the fire. The flames reflect in his eyes, obscuring the sea-green color. “I chose you and created a life for us that I swear will never reflect the outside world. I don’t want that life for you or for us.” He looks into my eyes and brushes my hair back. “I will not mark your skin because that means I am giving in to that world, which already rules my every waking decision as it is. You are my peace from that.”

Guilt washes through me for doubting him. He has never treated me like a piece of property, and after seeing Charles and Ruby, I know the difference. She will not be as lucky as I am.

T
rinda tapped her heel beside me and cinched the skirt of her yellow dress into her fist. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she gnawed her lower lip to shreds and blood appeared.

“Stop it,” I whispered harshly. “You’ll have no lips left if you keep at it.”

She pressed her lips together until all blood disappeared. The tapping didn’t stop, and I waited for the guard to turn his back before I slammed my knuckles into her thigh.

“Cut it the fuck out.”

On Trinda’s other side, Melanie leaned forward to wordlessly thank me. From a row of chairs in front of us, Uganda bit back a laugh. This was all fun and games now, but when they dragged Trinda off and punished her for it, the laughter would end in a hurry.

“I’m nervous,” Trinda whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“You meet asshole men every day,” I said. “We call them guards. This will be no different.”

“They’ll dress better,” Melanie said.

“I bet they’ll smell better, too,” Polly said from directly in front of me.

Uganda added, “Fuck better.”

Everyone gaped at her, but I schooled my face to impassivity. “The rest of us wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Right?” Trinda said, pinching her face in disgust. “So disgusting, Ugie.”

Uganda shrugged a single shoulder. I knew all about her and what she did with the guards. Had known. We had the same goal, she and I, only I didn’t plan to spread my thighs for those murdering bastards. I’d get out of here with my self-respect intact, thank you very much.

Guard Taggert entered the room, and both rows of girls—nineteen in all—sat up straight and crossed ankles. Hands folded into laps. Eyes forward. Utter silence filled the room.

“Thirty seconds, girls,” he said. “You know the drill. If your number is called, stand and walk through that door.” He pointed to the door to the left of a large mirror. “From then on, remember your manners and everything will work out just fine.”

In other words, there’d be no beatings, no starvation, and no solitary confinement. Too bad I couldn’t add slave labor to the list.

Taggert left the room and it began. I’d been through this twice already. This time around was my final callback. Someone wanted me. According to the repeat faces, more than one someone. Only one was semi-good-looking, and I wasn’t holding my breath he’d outbid the others.

When I turned eighteen in a couple of weeks, the winner would be revealed. With any luck, I wouldn’t be around to find out.

Guard Mack lifted a hand to his ear and then nodded to the room. We stood and walked in single file past the mirror, then stopped in the center to pose. One thing was for sure: We looked great. We wore standard issue while in the camp, but for this—the big sale—they gave us nice dresses. We saw a hair stylist and makeup artist, too. They gave me a teal wrap dress made from a soft, flowing material. In another life, I might have loved this dress. In another life, its sole purpose wasn’t to dress me up for sale on the open market. I couldn’t wait to throw it into an open flame.

I was just about to take my turn in front of the mirror when Guard Taggert ran into the room. “Wade, you’re with me.”

I nearly tripped in my damn heels. Not that I cared, but had all of my suitors just rejected me? I didn’t ask and didn’t miss a step on the way into the hall.

“You’ve been taken out of the running,” he said.

“My suitor changed his mind?” Curiosity was a huge weakness of mine.

Guard Taggert hesitated. “Not exactly. They’ve been denied. Your buyer . . . well, let’s just say he doesn’t need to wait in line.”

My heart stuttered in my chest and my mouth went dry. “He has to wait for my birthday, right? That hasn’t changed.” It couldn’t change. I wasn’t ready.

He scowled down at me. “The law hasn’t changed, and no man is above the law.”

I resisted a relieved sigh. “Too bad.”

This made him laugh. “Is that right? You ready for what’s in store, are you? Think you’re the shit?”

I shrugged and trained my gaze on the hallway perpendicular to ours just ahead. “Of course not. I’m only a simple girl.”

He scoffed. “Simple. Right. And I’m the queen of South America.”

 • • • 

“How was your first night?” Dr. Travista asks.

I run a hand over the smooth leather arm. I am surprised I have not worn it thin after all this time. “It was fine.”

“Not what you expected?”

He asks this as if he already expected this answer. “Not exactly.”

“Would you like to elaborate?”

“I am a stranger there.” I sigh and watch him nod absently, tapping something into his tablet. “I know who I am here. But not there.”

Dr. Travista puts the tablet aside and removes his glasses. “Are you up to continuing this trial?”

Yes.

“Yes. I do not wish to give up.”

Quitters never win.

The doctor watches me for a long moment, then says, “I spoke to Declan early this morning. He says you asked about the luckenbooth.”

Play dumb, you idiot. I told you.

I raise my eyebrows. “The what?”

“The brands. The hearts.”

I nod theatrically. “Oh yes.”

Easy. Remember—

I know,
I tell Her.
Short answers as near the truth as possible.

Good girl.

He folds his hands over his lap. “Where did you hear about them? My staff is all male, so they won’t have one, and you’ve never had one yourself.”

“A memory, I think,” I tell him.

“A memory? Of what?” He raises his bushy eyebrows and nibbles the earpiece of his glasses.

“A hand.”

Good God.

“A hand?” he asks.

I nod.

“Anything else?”

I shake my head. “I am sorry, but there is nothing more I can tell you. I really do not understand it myself.”

Not a single lie.

 • • • 

I take a long route to the lounge and “study” the paintings. It is early and the red coats are out and about. I will not get far, so I do not try to enter a new hallway. Not only that, but I am not in scrubs today and must stand out.

You’re a girl in a sea of guys,
She says.
You already stand out.

Shut up.

I miss my old scrubs now that I do not have them. I am sure I will find some in my room, but I cannot backtrack. I must move forward, and if that means wearing real clothes, then I will wear real clothes.

I chose my outfit this morning, though Declan offered to help. Little does he know that I carry a fashion adviser in my head and She knows what She likes. The fitted white top has a wide neck that shows a lot of my collarbone and three-quarter sleeves. I liked the jeans, so I am wearing them again. And low-heeled boots. My feet will need some time to grow accustomed to the close fit.

I had been unsure of this outfit until I saw myself in the mirror. I look pretty. Sexy, even. I did not expect that.

I am nearing the lounge, thinking about taking the time to paint. I want to paint a bathroom with pale wood and the setting sun reflecting off slatted windows. But I will paint mountains and trees with so much snow that branches weigh down at impossible angles.

I peel to a stop outside the lounge, my boot heels sliding over the floor. I brace a hand on the frame to keep from falling.

Or you won’t paint,
She says.

The inside of the lounge is covered in what can only be described as caveman art. Handprints cover the windows. Circles and swirls decorate the thin beige carpet. I think one head-shaped thing on a wall might have horns.

Ruby.

Ruby,
I agree.

You can’t stand in a fucking hallway for five goddamn seconds before security is on you and she redecorates the entire lounge like she’s some prehistoric troglodyte. What the hell was everyone doing? Taking a break? Eating donuts?

My paint tubes are misshapen and empty. Ruby actually twisted them into shapes and used them as centerpieces to some of the floor art. I might have thought this was clever but am too hurt to care.

You’ll get more,
She says, and to Her credit, She really is trying to make this better.

I step farther into the room and try not to look in the corner where I left a few paintings the other day. I already know what I will find.

It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.

I turn.

My beaches. My beaches are littered in Ruby graffiti.

My legs give way under me. I am so heartbroken by this I cannot breathe. It is not the paintings or the work I put into creating them but the intrusion on something so personal. Personal for reasons I cannot explain even to myself.

I crawl to the painting with globs of cadmium yellow winding out of the canvas like cake icing. I drop to my butt and hold the painting over my lap. It is much too large to hold like this, but I try. All I want to do is save it.

Tears splatter beside my hand as I try to scrape off the still-wet paint. It only smears and makes it worse.

Emma.
Her voice is soft and sad.
It’s only a painting. It will never be the real thing.

There is no real thing.

It’s here with me. You can have it anytime you want. Whenever you’re ready.

Why should I believe you? You work against me whenever you get a chance.

I work on another glob, but my fingers are too full of the paint I have already scraped off. It is too late to save and I smear my hand over the canvas in disgust. Now there is an Emma-size caveman handprint on my painting.

One day, Emma, you’ll understand.

“You are just like them,” I say aloud. I stand and throw the painting into the others. More of the same. “Keep your fucking secrets. I do not want any of them.”