To my utter horror, he noticed the gesture. His hand rises to his cheek where my hand was a second ago. Curious eyes flick up to mine. “You didn’t need to do that.” His voice is free of sarcasm. I’m surprised that he seems sincerely grateful.
“I didn’t want you to be in pain all night,” I retort like I wasn’t worried about him.
He lets out a smooth laugh and looks at me. “You know I can’t feel pain, right? Damn, he really didn’t tell you anything.”
My eyes widen and I regard him for a few moments to make sure he isn’t pulling my leg. “Not at all?” I ask incredulously.
“Nope. Pressure, sure. Touch, yes. Pleasure,especially. But not pain.”
My cheeks flash with heat.Ignore the pleasure comment.
“How?” My curiosity draws me closer, examining him like he’s inhuman. He tips my chin gently, bringing those eyes back to mine. Our noses are a mere inch apart, locks of his pale hair fall over his forehead and brush against mine.
I could lose track of everything if I stay too close to him. I inhale slowly and sit back on my haunches.
Cameron pokes his cheek like he can’t tell it’s a little swollen. “I take experimental pills. We are little guinea pigs to them, so we tend to get the cool shit before anyone else does. I’m taking some new medication that the Dark Forces are testing out for the normal military to use. It cancels out pain and makes my bones harder to break. The only setback is the aftereffect on the brain.” He taps the side of his temple and smirks.
Concern blooms over my expression. “But how would you know if you were mortally wounded? And who’s to say what the repercussions of a drug like that can have on you other than your mental state?” I mutter, taking him in with new eyes. Is that why he’s so fucked-up? Literally losing his mind because of an experimental drug?
He seems almost offended by that. “I’m different from the others down here, and Lieutenant Erik knows it. It’s the reason why they keep a feral dog like me around. I’m the only one who can handle the death pills so far. And no, they aren’t actually called that, but it’s what we like to call them since they kill most of the soldiers who try them.”
The cell feels so empty as he says those words. I can hear the purpose in his tone—he thinks they value him when really they’re using him until there’ll be nothing left.
“How long do other soldiers last before they die after taking them?”
Pride flickers through his eyes. “Forty-eight hours. Then they are as dead as doornails.”
My thoughts race. “And how long have you been taking them?”
“Three years.”
He’s resilient, I’ll give him that. But he’s also still in his late twenties, I’m guessing. How long can he push his body like this before it gives out?
“That’s a long time.” I breathe slowly and decide to garner as much information as I can out of him while I’m stuck in this cell.
He likes to read, that much is obvious with the stack of books on top of the desk in the corner. Many of which I recognized almost instantly as they are old literature and dreary poems. Reed and I read every single one at least four times over by candlelight in my father’s library the summer after I turned thirteen. He was my only friend. After his parents died in a house fire that year, my father insisted he live in our mansion. Greg was always fond of Reed. He saw the potential in him.
Reed should’ve been the heir to the Mavestelli name. Not me.
My gaze skirts over newspaper clippings that are scattered on Cameron’s desk as well, many with headlines involving executions and bodies found in odd circumstances. The pulse in my neck leaps. Does he know that’s me?No.The press weren’t allowed to take photos of me. Greg kept that from the papers, to protect himself, I’m sure.
But why is he collecting articles about my crimes? I worry my bottom lip.
Gathering information doesn’t have to be difficult,I remind myself. “You speak like you’re well-educated, contrary to how you look. Tell me, are you a tragic poet? I mean, your code name isMori, after all. And what’s with the old literature?” I say, letting my eyes go back to the beige-colored pages strewn about the room, aged from the mildewy air perhaps. Three books in particular are stacked in the center of his desk, one splayed open at the center.
I’d be lying if I said his demeanor wasn’t as intriguing as his looks are.
A poetic soldier. Who would’ve known one could exist.
For some reason that thought makes me somber. My eyes return to his papers, wondering what a man like him has to write about.
He chuckles, staring at me with that hooded gaze of his. “Those who dance frequently with death tend to have a fondness for dark literature. Are you not so different?” he shoots back, picking up the book closest to his side and thumbing through it. The pages are worn down from use. I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s read that story over. Curiosity gets the best of me.
“Ah, so you only adore the tragedies then.”
Cameron closes his book and lets it topple from his lap to the floor. “We are all only tragedies eventually. Even the romantics.” His accent makes the words hang like a noose between us.
God, this guy is straight from the dead poet’s club, and I’m foolishly attracted to it. If we were in a library rather than a secret military cell, I’d ask to join his book club of one and exchange words from time to time over wine.
