Article 5 (Article 5 #1)(56)

Chase breathed in slowly, and the rise and fall of his chest made him feel so much more human than soldier. It stripped away some of the loneliness that had been saddled on my shoulders all day. I found myself longing for him to touch my face, my hair, my hand curled on his chest. Some small, reassuring message that everything was going to be all right. But he did not.

The coyote bellowed one long, lonely cry. I shivered involuntarily.

“What if he…”

“He won’t. I’ll make sure.” Chase paused, sighed softly, and then whispered, “Sleep easy, Ember.” And though the ground was cold and uneven and my jeans were twisted around my legs, I slipped away.





CHAPTER


10



IT began with a slight jerk in his shoulders. Nothing unusual really, but as my head still rested on his chest, the movement jolted me awake.

A soft groan. Then a stifled gasp. I heard something hit the ground—his fist maybe, or his heel. Half of his body had escaped the sleeping bag; I could tell by the freedom in his movements. The slippery fabric rustled loudly as he twitched again.

I pushed the rest of the bag off us and sat up, breathless when the cold air snaked between our bodies. Chase had gone very still. I thought that my movement had woken him, but then he twisted sharply, his torso turning toward me, his knees drawing up beneath mine.

Moonlight filtered in through the nylon tent, revealing the side of his face, contorted by agony. The vision of such a large person reduced to curling into himself, quaking with fear, was like a fist closing around my heart.

Then he cried out. The sound cut straight to my bones.

Whatever uncertainty I’d harbored about Chase Jennings dissipated immediately. One hand slid to his shoulder, the other to his cheek.

“Chase,” I whispered.

His eyes burst open, wild and disoriented. In a flash, his left fist locked around my throat. The other wound back, ready to strike.

I couldn’t breathe to scream. My throat burned. The tears erupted, stinging my skin.

“Ember. Jesus.” He swore.

Immediately his grip released. He shot back, slamming into the giving wall of the tent, jostling the entire room. Startled, he tried to stand, but this didn’t work, either; he hit his head on the upper rod and was forced back into a crouch. His whole body quivered, like a wild animal locked in a cage. I couldn’t see his face, but I heard his breathing, hard and ragged.

My arms were shaking, raised up before me in surrender. I could still feel the band of friction encircling my throat, pulsing there. A reminder of Randolph’s baton. Of my self-inflicted vulnerability. I scooted back, bumping into one of the flimsy metal poles. The whole tent shook again.

“I’m sorry,” I managed weakly.

“Wait. I didn’t…” Kneeling, he reached to grasp my shoulders but drew back at the last second, not trusting himself to touch me. I put one hand over my mouth, hugging my elbow with the other. My eyes squeezed shut.

“Did I hurt you?” His voice was strained.

I said nothing, only shook my head quickly. I wouldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t stand to see the soldier when I’d allowed myself to lay with someone else.

“I’m so sorry. I … I didn’t know. It was a dream.” The words rushed out, and I could hear in them the precarious balance between fear and self-loathing.

His hands were so close to my body I could feel the heat from them. Very slowly, his fingertips skimmed over my damp cheek. Reflexively, I shrunk from his touch, however gentle it may have been.

He shuddered. Then, without another word, he shoved on his boots, grabbed his jacket, and went outside.

*



I SPENT the hours staring into the darkness, confused, at times afraid, while Chase paced outside the tent. I thought of running again, but I knew I would certainly end up lost in the forest in the middle of the night.

After a while, I became aware of the quiet that had replaced his footsteps. The sudden fear struck me that he had left. I couldn’t let that happen. Despite how much I didn’t care to admit it, I was now relying on him to help me find my mother. I needed him.

I clambered out of the sleeping bag and crawled to the exit. My frozen fingers fumbled with the zipper before I pulled away the nylon barrier.

The darkness had lifted some, but it wasn’t yet dawn. Chase was sitting against a tree, ten feet away, keeping watch. I sat back onto my heels, relieved that he was still there.

The temperature had plummeted; the pine needles on the ground were glimmering with iced dew. By the time I made it outside he was standing. Like an old man, he stretched his back, stiff and half frozen. A rush of irritation inflamed me. Why had he not just come back into the tent? I would have given him space. Our discomfort with one another was a lot better than him dying of hypothermia.

But as I got closer, my irritation warped into concern. Bright red patches of skin lit his cheeks, and his lips were chapped and nearly blue. Though he wore a coat, it had done little to shield him from the elements, and it crinkled loudly with each violent shiver. His breath did not fog in front of his face as mine did. There was no warmth left within him.

I ran back to the tent and returned with the sleeping bag. He didn’t object when I threw it over his shoulders, but when he tried to grasp the material, it slipped from his numb fingers. That was when I saw that the knuckles of his right hand were swollen and bruised. A line of blood stained his fingers down around to his palm.