Whisper (Whisper #1)(13)

It.

Doesn’t.

Make.

Sense.

All my other evaluators have clear purposes: Enzo disciplines my body, Vanik pokes at my brain and Manning assesses my psyche — or attempts to — while everyone else tries to break me and put me back together again. That’s their script, and they act out their roles, even if I may never know why.

I’ve managed to shut them all out for so long. To just let them do their jobs and be done with it. I haven’t cooperated, but I haven’t resisted. Like the gruel I eat every morning for breakfast, I do what I’m supposed to do but nothing more. I’m functional but bland. I survive, but I don’t thrive. That’s the life I’ve chosen to live. It’s how I stay safe — and how I keep others safe from me.

Or at least, it was, until Ward came along with his prophetic nickname. Without me being able to stop it, I’ve been thawing. Two weeks is all it took for him to chip away at me, just as he said he would.

“Give me something here, Chip.”

Ward reaches for my cheek, his fingers skimming my skin. My eyelids flutter at his touch, and I don’t pull away despite everything inside me warning that I should.

“At least tell me you’re okay.”

I inhale deeply and meet his gaze, offering a barely there nod that says everything I can’t: Yes, I’m okay. No, I won’t tell you what happened. Please don’t ask, because I won’t answer.

He releases a sigh of relief, and I wonder if his performance is even real. As an evaluator, he would know better than to form any meaningful attachment. He must be aware of the clock ticking down to my last day. He is the noose tied around my neck, after all, just as much as Falon is the hangman.

“You’ve been out of it for almost nine hours,” he tells me. “It’s nearly midnight.”

That causes my eyes to widen. I’ve never been away from my cell so late.

“We’re in my personal quarters right now,” Ward continues, rising to his feet again. “I didn’t know what to do with you, just that you needed to get warm, so I brought you here.”

He clasps his hands behind his back, and I fight to keep my eyes on his face when his T-shirt tightens.

“My aunt is Lengard’s head medic, and I convinced her to come and check you over — off the record. She said that as far as she could tell, you were mostly suffering from shock.”

His eyes sweep down my body and back up again.

“In case you’re wondering, she’s the one who changed you into my clothes.”

Not as good as magical elves, but better than the alternative.

“You must be hungry. I’ll get you something to eat, but then you’re going back to sleep. Esther — my aunt — says that’s the best thing for you right now. You’re normally pale, but this is ridiculous.”

He almost sounds angry, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, I wish I could see my reflection.

As if bracing for a battle, Ward says, “You’re staying here for the rest of the night, no objections. You wouldn’t be able to walk back to your …” He trails off, seemingly unable to find the word he’s after, then he clenches his jaw and continues, “… accommodations on your own anyway, and I’m not carrying you around again, when you can sleep in a perfectly good bed here.”

I can’t think about anything — not the emotion I see in his eyes at the memory of my cell, not the idea of him carrying me anywhere. All I can focus on is one thing: I don’t want to sleep in his room — again. No way. It’s much too personal, crossing too many boundaries even without him in here with me. He is my evaluator. And he can never — will never — be anything else.

“Don’t try to fight me on this, Chip. You won’t win. So don’t waste the energy.”

With those words, he turns and walks from the room.

I’m thrown by his abrupt exit, my thoughts reeling. I want to object, to escape his company and the unbalanced feeling he ignites in me. But he’s right — I’m light-headed just sitting here. Regardless, I try to take advantage of his absence by standing again. Or attempting to. But once more my legs give out, and I collapse onto the bed just seconds before Ward strides back into the room.

“Here,” he says.

He hands me a steaming bowl filled with some kind of aromatic soup. Despite my churning stomach, my mouth waters. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything other than bland, regulated meals. The offering before me is like something from a dream.

“Go on. You need to get your strength back.”

As much as I want to refuse any help from Ward, I’m not prideful enough to turn my nose up at a good meal. Especially when it might be one of my last.

I ladle a spoonful of soup and blow on it before placing it in my mouth. I can’t keep my eyes from closing — it’s either that, or have them light up with pleasure.

The soup is divine. Thick chunks of chicken, creamy stock and lashings of vegetables — real vegetables. Nothing can compare, certainly not my gruel and nutri-shakes.

“Nice, huh?” Ward says.

I force my eyes back open and find him watching me.

“Esther is a real whiz in the kitchen. She’s tried teaching me, and I’m not too bad, but she’s a cooking ninja. Luckily for me — and you, today — she keeps my fridge well stocked. There’s plenty more where that came from, so eat as much as you want.”