I saw Ruby make a sandwich once—and it gave me permanent trauma.
She and the other girls crashed overnight at our place, mine and Bee’s, and in the morning she went out the shop, got a bunch of food to make a full English breakfast, and that was great, until she started making a little spam sandwich.
Just layers of processed meat, some cheese and brown sauce, and I retched as she bit a huge chunk out of it.
I couldn’t stop the retch.
I couldn’t look away.
Even now, the reminder of it, my gaze on the can of corned beef, it stirs that sickly feeling in my chest, and I have to rub and rub in hopes that it fucks off.
The cold warrior throws me a look—one that freezes me.
There’s no rage in it, no entire coldness either.
It’s a look I haven’t seen on him before.
Annoyance.
Literally, he glances at me tediously and gives a curt sigh, a huffed breath, before he continues through the bag.
I’m sorry, but am I getting onyournerves?
Like what the fuck?
I didn’t even do anything.
Just sitting here.
Asshole.
The next to join the pile on the right is a lighter, a flask of vodka that he spares a sniff before discarding it, and a headlight with a broken strap and a cracked LED case. It’s something I hung onto in case I ever discovered the secrets of repairing torches.
The miniature torch with the strap that comes to fasten around a wrist goes on the left pile.
Sinking back against the boulder, I drop my hand to my boot and pick at a frayed lace.
My interest is waning, drifting to the faces warped in the ribbons of steam.
Shark and Glass have scooted along the rocks and boulders to wedge together and pore over a scrap of parchment.
Glass’s pale lips move softly, silently, around words that don’t reach me over the murmurs of camp.
My shoulders slowly tug back, lifting my posture, my chin, and I try to get a better look at the face sketched onto the parchment they consider.
But I realise it isn’t parchment.
Beige, frayed, and ancient-looking, it’s an old piece of cloth, inked with the faint sketch of a face. Afemale’sface.
Shark lets his thumb shift over the faded portrait, a touch of longing, of affection.
Must be his lover…
His wife, maybe.
The thought startles me.
Do these beasts have wives? Do they know love?
