Now, they slide down my legs before I drop into a squat—and the warrior vanishes from sight.
Behind the wheel, the torchlight doesn’t reach me, so I’m squatting in darkness that’s edged with some ribbons of crimson, like the sort of glare that comes when my eyes are adjusting, and I have to squeeze my eyelids shut a dozen times.
I hate the darkness, I hate squatting in it.
It’s a vulnerable feeling, like at any moment a snake is going to strike up at me from the grass, or spiders are making their way up my boots right now, and before I’m finished, they’ll start skittering over my exposed areas.
It rushes me.
That’s the catch with the lick of privacy I found behind the bulky tractor wheel.
It steals my sight—and brings anxieties.
But it also keeps me out ofhisline of sight.
He might not feel desire for a human woman,the thumbs, but that memory is seared into my mind. His double-take and bewildered lingering stare on my pelvic area when I changed in front of him.
It’s just a little hair…
That’s all.
Not like I have wax appointments lined up in the blackout.
Besides, I was never really the type to worry much about it. In the Before, I trimmed. Kept it tidy. And even sometimes in the blackout, I indulged in that. A trim here and there. It’s not like I went out of my way to do it, to plan it, to schedule it. But the apocalypse comes with a lot of quiet, dull moments, of time just staring at walls, and hey, I used some of those moments to groom myself, so what? I also used pore strips in bathrooms of homes we broke into, and whatever I could get my hands on to pass the time.
I didn’t think it could get any more boring than it was back then.
I was wrong.
Now, there are no razors to fiddle with, no pore strips, no magazines, no nothing. Just eternal darkness and fae warriors.
It should have me in constant adrenaline, drenched in a forever panic, my insides always icy and coiling, my head always frantic—
But I’ve sort of gotten used to it.
That’s horrible.
There’s shame creeping onto my cheeks at that.
Somewhere along the way, my adrenaline just settled.
I huff away the thoughts before I feel for the wet wipes I left on the curve of the wheel. My other hand is firm on the hard rubberof the tyre, a grip that I hope holds and keeps me from losing my balance on this aching leg.
My fingertips fumble over the damp wipes I’m searching for, then I lure one out. I only just bring it down to my spread thighs when the glow of the flames around the wheel flickers.
My insides go cold.
I throw my stare up—and find the cold warrior advancing, his predatory steps bringing him around the nose of the tractor.
The glare I shoot up at him isn’t kind.
I hiss through my clenched teeth. “I’m not finished.”
Fuck off, you monster, is what I really want to say.
His stare is unfaltering, it’s a challenge of apple-green and frost and threats.
“Go away,” I grit out the words.
