“God, you don’t belong in this hellhole—“ he says, his voice breaking as he spins around and tucks my head into his chest.
I melt into his arms, soaking in his comforting basil scent. A soft purr vibrates out from my chest, and his arms stiffen around me.
He holds me to him for a second longer before taking a measured step back.
“Rules, huh?” He asks. His jaw is tight as shadows dance in his eyes.
I nod eagerly.
“Okay, rules... Let’s see. Rule one, don’t—don’t try to run away, got it?”
I’m practically a bobblehead as I continue to nod. That’s an easy enough rule to follow.
“It’ll be worse if you try to run away and get caught. I won’t be able to protect you from whatever punishments my crazy dad or brother come up with.”
He pauses, waiting for me to give him some sort of verbal sign I’m following along.
“I understand,” I say, flashing him a smile, now that he seems to have calmed down. “What else?”
He stares at me with the same strange, almost frozen look, his gaze roaming over my face like he’s trying to find something. Is it my smile? Do I have something between my teeth?
Probably not, since it’s been a while since I’ve eaten.
“Kind of an extension of rule one, but don’t leave this trailer without me. If you need something, I’ll go get it for you, or we’ll go together. Rule two is—“ His hands clench into fists. “You’ve gotta listen to what I say in front of other people. They’re gonna expect you to—to?—“
He looks away from me as he swallows hard. Guilt and shame seem to radiate from him in waves. I can almost taste the bitterness at the back of my throat.
“They want you to make me do the things your brother was telling me to do, right?” I murmur softly.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “But it’ll only be in front of other people, I promise.”
“Okay, that’s fine.”
My agreeableness seems to grate on his nerves, because he moves past me, keeping a wide berth between us so our shoulders don’t brush in the small space.
“Those’re all the rules I can think of. Do you want a shower?” He asks, rummaging through a tiny linen closet.
My grimy knees peek out past the hem of Rowan’s hoodie, and I wince.
“Yes, please. Thank you,” I answer.
He pulls out a towel before handing it to me and nodding to the small bathroom across from what I assume to be his bedroom. It’s small, but clean, just like the rest of his trailer. There’s a second hook right next to his towel that I set my own on.
The showers at the facility were wide and open with concretefloors and shower heads that were punishing in their water pressure or barely a tiny stream, depending on which one you were assigned to.
No doors. No curtains.
Here, in Rowan’s shower, I have both.
“Here’s an old t-shirt of mine and a pair of boxers,” he says, reappearing at the doorway. His thick brows draw down when he sees me standing in the middle of the bathroom, wringing my hands. “Are you good? What’s going on? Do you need help turning on the shower?”
“Y—yes please,” I whisper.
The handlers back at the facility were always in charge of that sort of thing. They dictated the temperature, the time, and whether you were allowed soap. I don’t know what I’m allowed to do here, considering he only gave me two rules, and none of them have anything to do with showering.
Because his bathroom is even smaller than his kitchen, even though I lean against the bathroom sink and try to give him as much room as possible, he still brushes up against me as he passes me.
“There we go, should be good now. The water heater is right there,” he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the wall behind us, “So the water heats fast, but it’s a tiny motherfucker, so it won’t stay hot for long.”
