Sovereign (Sovereign Series) (20 page)

I
failed. 

I
don’t even try to stop the tears.  They fall on their own volition.

Dylan’s
body tenses and his face contorts--it looks like pain.  His hand hovers over my
shoulder and I lean away from him and cover my face, preferring to suffer alone
even though that isn’t an option in these tight quarters.  His hand lands
firmly on my shoulder and his voice quivers, “Please.”  I meet his eyes,
trembling.

“Please,
what?” I ask through a sob.

“Let
me comfort you.”

Before
I can put up a fight, a sigh escapes me, and Dylan pulls me into the warmest
embrace I’ve ever felt in my life--not that I’ve had many.  His hand cups the
back of my head as I sob into his neck.  He rocks me back and forth, squeezing
me so tightly it almost hurts.

When
I’ve finally cried all I can, I pull back to breathe.  A voice in my head
screams for him to let go, but I sense this moment isn’t just about me.  I
don’t know what he’s thinking, but Dylan must be grieving, too, so I try my
hardest not to hurt him.

“I
saw her hug you.  If they had scanned me, they would have seen it.  I was
trying to save her.  I was trying to save you both.”  I’m rambling, but I can’t
stand the silence when it’s so loud inside my head.

“She
shouldn’t have done that.”

“I
used to imagine you on the outside,” I whisper.  The corner of his mouth turns
upward.  “The two of you.”  The smile disappears. 

“I
used to picture me on the outside, too.  But not with her.”  I meet his eyes,
startled by the intensity there.  Why is he being so cryptic?  “When you used
to talk about escaping,” he says, pushing my messy bangs from my face, “I
always wanted to go with you.”

“Why
didn’t you tell me?” I ask, baffled.  It’s unimaginable.  Dylan was always my
enabler, but I thought he merely tolerated me, that he was happy in Antius.  I
couldn’t imagine him wanting to leave.

“You
were so bent on being on your own.  Keeping me at a distance,” he says.  I try
to look away, but there’s nowhere to turn.  “And for some insane reason, you
filled your head with this fantasy about me and Alyssa.  But I’ve spent years
wanting nothing more than to jump that fence with
you
.”

This
is not true--it can’t be.  Dylan’s my best friend, but Dylan loving Alyssa is
what kept me safe with him.  I knew Dylan cared about me, but I needed to
believe he would be fine without me.  I was just using him, wasn’t I?  Because
he could help me escape?  Isn’t that why we were friends?

“She
was crazy about you.”

He
takes a long, steady breath.  “I’m sorry she’s gone, but I’m crazy about
you
.  I have been all along.”

I
finally meet his eyes, ready to call his bluff, and then his lips are on mine,
soft and hard at the same time.  A gentle touch with intense passion combined
in one small gesture.  And he feels...fragile...but no less strong.  No amount
of poems or stories could have prepared me for Dylan’s lips against mine.  His
warmth is all the poetry I could ever stand to know.  But I don’t want this.  I
didn’t ask for it.

This
is Dylan
,
I think.  I start to pull away but he
runs his hand across my face, grazing my cheekbone as his fingers slide through
my hair and settle at the nape of my neck.  He glides his thumb back and forth
on my jaw.  It’s gentler than I would have thought he could be.  The touch of
his fingers on my skin paralyzes me, and I don’t stop him like I should.

When
his lips release me, his embrace becomes even tighter than before.  The
pressure hurts my chest, and I realize it must be the wounds. 

“Ow,”
I manage, before darting my hand protectively to my chest.  He instantly
loosens his hold. 

His
shaky hand hovers over my chest, but doesn’t touch.  “I’m sorry.”  His breath
stutters out as though he’s freezing cold.  Is he nervous like me?

“I’m
okay.”  I can’t make sense of what I’m feeling.  I want to crawl out of this
tiny prison and run far away to untangle all this confusion.  “I need out.”  I
begin to scramble toward the opening.

“Wait.” 
I realize his whole body’s trembling, not just his hands.  “We can’t go yet.”

“The
rain’s clearing up.  I feel fine now.  We can keep moving.”

“It’s
not you,” he says, shakily.

“What’s
wrong?”  I wonder if he was injured in the escape.

“Withdrawals. 
I feel it,” he tells me.

“What
do you mean?”

“My
body has to acclimate to being off the meds.  I already have a fever, and I’m
probably going to shake more.  Don’t freak out on me, we just have to wait it
out.”

“How
do you know all this?”  I’m a bit taken aback.  This admiration business has
got to stop.  If only he were less impressive.  But if he were less impressive,
would I have been drawn to his friendship to begin with? 

“You
think you’re the only one who sneaks around with an electronic book?”  He
grins, and even though he’s covered in sweat, there’s something so charming
about him.  Have I never noticed? 

His
chattering teeth are perfect, and those aren’t the only things.  His jaw is
just masculine enough, but doesn’t have harsh angles.  Even the shape of his
lips is attractive.  He’s a perfect example of what sanctioned procreation is
capable of--perhaps the only argument in favor of the atrocious practice.  I’d
bet his mother was breathtaking.

I
notice sweat dripping down his neck, and his bottom lip quivers.  For another
half hour, I watch him in silence until his entire body is trembling.

“What
can I do?”  I rub his arm, returning the gesture he’d given me, but knowing
it’s probably not making any difference.

Through
chattering teeth, he says, “Water.”

“We
can’t.  What if it’s contaminated?  How will I know?”

“I
guess...we’ll have to...r-risk it,” he strains to say.  “B-be careful.  They’re
probably close.”

As
I shimmy upward, Dylan’s trembling hand slides down my side, my hip, my leg,
until I’m halfway past him and accidentally knee him in the chin. 

“I’m
so sorry,” I whisper, but he doesn’t respond.

Once
I’m past him, I’m able to crawl on my belly instead of my side.  Right before
the opening, I pause to listen.  My hand settles on torn fabric, which I
realize is my shredded up shirt.  There’s blood on a lot of it, but I grab hold
of a clean piece and bring it with me.

Outside
the tree, I enter a thick brush that’s soaked from a recent downpour.  Still on
my knees, I dip my head to the moist earth and inhale.  I’m not sure what toxic
rain water would smell like, but I know what clean smells like, so hopefully I
can tell the difference. 

I
don’t smell anything.  Just dirt.  I crawl farther from our tree tunnel, and as
I get free of the thick brush, I stand up in a small clearing.  The tree is a
great hiding place, almost completely hidden by fresh, spring foliage.

I
listen to the air, hoping I might hear a stream or creek, which I don’t. 
Afraid to stray too far, I direct my attention to the trees and shrubs
surrounding me.  I find a large leaf with droplets resting on the surface.  I
sniff the water, careful not to knock it off. 

It
smells clean.  I gently lift the leaf toward my mouth and take a deep breath. 
I have to test it.  I tip the leaf toward my mouth and allow the drops to fall
onto my tongue.  I squeeze my eyes shut while I assess. 

Five
deep inhales and five long exhales pass before I realize nothing has happened,
nor could I taste anything abnormal.  But what if I’m immune?  That doesn’t
mean I wouldn’t taste it, right?

I
drink off of several more leaves before I decide the water seems safe, and
there’s only one thing left to do.  Get it to Dylan.  But I have no idea how--I
didn’t exactly bring a cup.  I pull the fabric scrap from my back pocket.  If I
can find a stream, I can saturate it and squeeze the water into Dylan’s mouth.

I
step toward a clearing when I hear a noise across the way.  My heart kicks up,
and I fly toward the brush.  I drop the fabric as my foot slips in a puddle,
knocking me off balance.  I recover swiftly and keep moving when it dawns on
me--if they find the fabric, they’ll know we’re close.

I
turn back and drop to my knees to recover the scrap, which has fallen in the
puddle.  I jog back as quietly as I can.  When I reach the bushes, I crawl on
my hands and knees, the shirt still clutched in my fist.

Men’s
voices and footsteps follow me as I grow nearer the tree’s opening.  My heart
races while they get closer and closer, as if they know right where I am.  I’m
glad I grabbed the shirt, because they walked right over that puddle.

As
I’m about to crawl inside the tree, a voice calls out, “Wait,” and it’s
dangerously close to me.  All the men stop.  “I heard movement.”  He says. 

“There
are six of us, sir,” a soldier tells him.  I can tell a soldier when I hear
one. 

I’m
frozen still, hoping my breathing isn’t as loud to them as it is to me. 

“It
was over here,” Sir says.  He’s so close.  His footsteps fall even closer now. 

“I’ll
help you look,” the same soldier calls and stomps over.  Heavy arms slash
through the shrubs around me, and if I stay put, he’ll catch me.  I make the
move and leaves crinkle under my knees.  I crawl inside, far enough that I can
pull my feet away from the light near the mouth. 

Looking
over my shoulder, I see the leaves being jostled.  But I don’t see any faces,
and I don’t hear any evidence that I’m caught. 

I
exhale quietly. 

The
men continue walking and searching all around us, but they don’t find us.

When
I sense the men are at least a few yards away, I slide in the rest of the way
to where Dylan is.  He’s still trembling and covered in sweat.

I
touch his face but he doesn’t open his eyes.  I draw the soaked cloth toward
his mouth.  Though I can’t know for sure that it’s safe, he needs it.

I
force the cloth between his lips and squeeze the puddle water into his mouth. 
It doesn’t seem like enough to make a difference, but I can’t go back.  Not
now, with Nathan’s men crawling around looking for me. 

Why
would they come after me?  I’m just one girl.  What are they so worried about? 
The odds are greater that I’ll die in the wilderness than do anything that
could possibly matter to them.

I
lay the cloth on Dylan’s forehead, not sure what else to do.  After a moment,
the area grows quiet, so I settle back in beside him.  All I can do is dab the
sweat off his face and wait. 

“Please
wake up.”  I think about all the years I dreamed of this escape.  I laugh
inside myself at the grandeur I expected to accompany such a feat.  And to
think I imagined doing all this alone--one girl against the world.  Who I thought
I was, I don’t know, but what I was is simple: naive.

It
takes only a moment to realize how glad I am that Dylan’s with me--and right
now “with me” is a rather loose interpretation--and how badly I need him.  I
shake my head at the word
need
.  I don’t want to need anyone.  Maybe I
don’t.  If he ever wakes up, the company will be nice, but certainly not
necessary. 

Who
knows, maybe he’ll even slow me down. 

No,
I’m pretty sure he saved my life today.

It’s
okay
.
 This is going to be okay.  I just have
to set some boundaries.  Dylan is my friend, so he will respect my feelings.  I
will thank him for saving me, and then I will kindly ask him to keep his
hands--and lips--to himself.  I’m sick and tired of being touched.  First
Nathan and Titus, now Dylan.

It’ll
be fine.  I just have to wake him up.

Over
the next half hour, his body shakes progressively harder.  I’m terrified and
hate that I don’t know how to help.  When the tables were turned, he knew
exactly what to do.  I’d give anything to return the favor.

He’s
covered in sweat, and even though he’s shaking, I feel the heavy thud of his
rapid heartbeat.  His fists are clenched in front of his chest.  I grab them,
pleading in my mind for him to snap out of it. 

As
Dylan’s labored breaths fall against my cheek, I know with certainty that I
cannot lose another friend.  I’ve got to figure something out, and I think it
means going out for more water. 

It’s
been at least an hour since I heard Nathan’s men.  I have to assume the coast
is clear.  But just because I can’t hear them, doesn’t mean they can’t hear me.

I
crawl out of the hole, carefully, trying to stay as quiet as possible.  I’ve
got the damp rag in hand.  It’s still my best means of carrying water. 

When
I’m out of the brush, I stand and take inventory of my surroundings.  The
obvious things: trees, brush, natural debris, a puddle.  The important thing:
no soldiers. 

I
scour the ground, though I’m not sure what I’m looking for yet.  I spot a piece
of wood and kneel beside it.  It’s a scrap of tree bark with a subtle curve to
it.  If I could find one that curves just a little bit more, it could hold
water.