Folsom (End of Men, #1)(45)

I’m discharged and put on bed rest for the next week. That means no coming in to work. No keeping an eye on Laticus and Charity. Sera is waiting at the car for us; she smiles when she sees me, nodding her head in greeting. We’ve been on the road for no more than five minutes when I notice she’s going in the wrong direction.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To the compound.”

I look at Folsom curiously as he stares straight ahead. Am I imagining it or is he avoiding my eyes?

“Why?”

“Because your mother and sister have left your childhood home and moved in with Petite. I don’t want you to be alone, and I don’t want you at the Governor’s Mansion. Neither is safe.”

“Since when are you in charge of my safety?”

“Since I saw your sister smile when she thought you were having a miscarriage. Since Petite threatened you. Since you made that dumbass speech on the news with all twelve Regions watching you.”

I blink at him. “Oh.”

My sister, yes, I’d almost forgotten about that. A sick feeling takes root in my stomach when I think about Sophia. I tap my fingers on my knee, a dozen emotions competing for first place. Even Folsom noticed the look on Sophia’s face. And did he really think I was a…dumbass? It’s hard to tell if Folsom is angry or teasing. His facial expression hardly ever changes; the only way to know is to see his eyes, which are currently turned away from me.

“Where will I stay though?” I finally ask.

“With me,” Folsom says simply. My eyes grow large.

“But, the Society…what if they find out you have me there? Are you…can I—?”

“I can entertain whomever I want. They encourage it.”

“Right, but that applies to women who aren’t already pregnant.”

He looks at me then and his light eyes seem to be laughing. I look away when the butterflies come, ashamed at how quickly my body and mind team up against me. I reach for his hand. To my relief, he twines his fingers through mine and squeezes reassuringly.

When we pull into the compound, there are people milling about. A woman smiles at me knowingly and introduces herself as Folsom’s stylist, Krystal. She is tall and long-limbed, her body a grid of lean muscle and feminine curves. I remember a detail he told me when we first met. “Does she help you design your clothes?”

“I give her the sketches,” he tells me. “And she takes care of the rest.” I look at him now, noticing the unusual cut and drape of his shirt. The long suede trench that looks like oil.

“I don’t have any clothes here,” I say.

“We’ll have some made for you then.” He holds the door open for me and I step past him. I want to shut the door quickly, block out all of the eyes watching us: stylists, and massage therapists, and bodyguards. They all look at me the same, with pity in their eyes. I’m falling in love with Folsom and soon he’ll move on…with them…and I’ll be left behind.

I feel an irrational spurt of jealousy toward Folsom’s stylist. A woman who gets to travel with him, see him daily.

“I should be your stylist,” I say as he leads me into the living room. Folsom raises an eyebrow at me.

“Oh, you should?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Then I can travel with you. Be with you.”

“And what would you dress me in?”

“Well, I prefer you naked, but I’m sure I could whip some things up for you.”

“Why this sudden interest in fashion?” He sits down on the sofa and I scoot next to him on my knees, my legs tucked under me.

“I’m jealous.”

“Of?”

“Everyone who gets to be with you all the time.”

“You’re jealous of the women I don’t have sex with?” He leans his head back and rubs his forehead in confusion.

“I’m jealous of everyone who gets to be with you when I’m not.”

“But when I’m with them, I want to be with you,” he says.

I’m so pleased I can’t do anything but stare at him. Folsom, who doesn’t seem to realize the effect his words have on me, gets up to go to the kitchen. When he comes back a few minutes later, he has a Silverbook in his hand.

“Genome Y has released a statement saying both you and the baby are fine,” he says.

I nod. I expected as much. The news picked up the story of me being rushed from Langley’s party in an ambulance and my Silverbook hasn’t stopped vibrating since.

He sets his Silverbook down and looks at me with an odd expression.

“What?”

“I have something to show you. Do you feel okay?”

I crinkle my face at him. “I’m fine. What is it?”

“It’s in the back room…I’m the only one allowed in there,” he says pointedly.

He pulls me up and we walk past his bedroom to one of two closed doors. He opens the door and turns on the light. There are boots everywhere: some finished, some waiting to be stained, some in the beginning stages…and on the workbench sits the most intricate, stunning pair I’ve ever seen.

I move toward them and touch the soft, supple material. “I love them,” I whisper. My eyes fill and I look at him. “You made boots for me.”