“So what?” I ask, pushing against him.
“Why?” His question hangs in the air as we pass through a tunnel—the sounds quieting a bit, my ears ringing.
I shrug, but I can barely move beneath him. “I just…”
“What?” he demands, pressing into me harder. I can feel everything. I battle the urge to writhe against him, to growl, to bite. He’s not intentionally hurting me, but as my shoulder blades ache against the hard metal, I find myself wanting him to shove me harder, feel him more—get himcloser.
I’ve been so afraid of men, so unwilling to let myself experience anything like this, that it feels like a silent revolt. I have been alone for so long, and he had once been by my side—he had been my savior. My body must recognize that.
I know he’s safe, and I want it all.
“Why did I survive? Why me?” I say loudly as the train exits the tunnel, the wind thundering against the side of the car again. I stare straight into his rich, soulful eyes. “Why me?” I whisper, breathless.
He doesn’t say anything, and he releases his hold enough to take the pressure off my shoulder blades.
“Did you ever think that maybe you survived to make the world shake and shatter at your fingertips? You are the strongest person I know, Evelyn. You are fearless. Powerful. And you will change the world. You don’t need a speeding train or some men with knives to tell you that. You. Just. Are,” he growls, his facesovery close to mine.
My chest rises and falls quickly. I wonder if he can feel the pounding of my heart against his chest…
He leans his forehead against mine, closing his eyes. He’s panting. His body unconsciously thrusts into me every few seconds, and for the first time, I actuallyseewhat I do to him. The anguished expression. The thrumming of his heart. The hungry breaths. He trails a finger slowly—ever so slowly—up my leg, and a low rumble escapes my throat. Everything about this moment, everything abouthim, makes me quiver beneath him. The adrenaline from the train running through my veins. Fervent longing pooling between my legs. I tilt my head up slightly, my lips an inch from his—so close that I can feel his breath on my face. This close, I realize his eyes actually have a ring of lighter brown around his pupils, giving the color more depth. They zero in on me, and I swallow thickly.
“We should go to the bar,” he says, his hair flying around.
As he pulls away, I wonder if he can see the flush that’s crept up my chest, or the way I can’t seem to catch my breath. The cool air blows all around us, and he takes my hand, leading me into the next car. I don’t say anything as we make our way through another connector to the next car. I’m quiet as he orders us drinks, nodding when he asks if a martini is okay. I’m still in shock over my physical reaction to him. For the past seven years, men have repulsed me.Even after being rescued.I’ve often wondered if maybe I preferred women, but they didn’t appeal to me either.Nothing—not even the thought of sex—had ever come close to breaking the glass wall I keep that part of me hidden behind.
Yet somehow… I am slowly starting to crave it. Not with all men, or women, or even myself.
But withhim.
And I can’t make sense of it.
Every rational part of myself tells me that it doesn’t make sense. I should be repulsed. I should run away. I should ignore the way his arms fill out his sweater, ignore his disheveled black hair. Or the way every single person turns to look at him whenever we enter a room. He’s like a puppeteer controlling the crowd, and I approve of the show.
I want him to control me—move me. I want him to command the strings so that we’re entangled again. I want to know what it would be like to have him inside of me, taking charge.
It defies everything I thought I knew about post-trauma Evelyn.
We’re quiet as we sip our martinis, and when we’re both good and buzzed, he leads us to our private cabin, where I proceed to fall asleep as soon as I lie down.
The next thing I know, we’re pulling into London, and I’m still mystified. He makes small talk, and I follow along as best as I can. We file out with the other first-class passengers, and I have to practically jog to keep up with Benedict. He’s carrying all of our bags, his black coat billowing behind him, and when we get to the pickup line, I already know the dark SUV waiting right out front is for me. Benedict doesn’t verify or confirm—he simply nods to the driver and loads my bag into the trunk. When he closes the door, he turns to face me. His brows are furrowed, and he looks conflicted.
“Evelyn…” he trails off and looks away, running a hand through his hair. “It’s best if we stay away from each other for a while.” I stare at him. Of all the things he could say, I was not expecting that. I open my mouth to ask why, but he beats me to it. “Come to the meeting. That’s fine. But…” he looks away, his expression coarse and businesslike. He places his hands into his coat pockets as he turns to face me again. I’ve never seen him look this uncomfortable. “The Brotherhood is powerful. And time consuming.” He takes a step forward, bending down as his lips meet my cheek briefly, and then they graze the other one. They linger on my skin for a second too long, and I can hear his breathing hitch for a second. “Be safe.”
He starts to turn.
“Wait,” I say, my voice getting caught in my throat.
“I have to go. You have my number if you need me, but I will make myself scarce tonight.” Without another word, he turns and walks away.
I don’t breathe for a full twenty seconds after he’s gone, the feel of his breath on my cheek lingering for far too long.
The Ceremonies
Evelyn Snow
Oxford,Present
I take a long shower when I get home. Zoey is out with some friends, so I wander around our empty flat for a few minutes, scarfing an entire bag of chips and two apples. When I’m finished, I contemplate binging reruns of The Great British Bake Off and ignoring the Brotherhood meeting altogether. I feel betrayed, angry, and tricked. The last thing I want is to show up like some desperate shelter animal. I don’t need to be reminded that he pities me.
