I look away. "Just a dream,” I mutter. But neitherher face nor my tone shows that we believe that. The small blessing is that if she heard anything, she'll at least know I was telling the truth about being military.
The rain has slowed at least. Only a trickle pelting the tent.
"You hungry?" Naomi asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence. She doesn't wait for an answer, just rummages through my pack and pulls out a granola bar. She tears the wrapper open with her teeth, her other hand never far from the gun.
"I can feed myself if you untie me," I say.
She shakes her head, scooting closer until she's right beside me. "Open," she commands, holding the granola bar to my mouth.
I hesitate. This is too intimate. Too close. I have gotten used to her scent. But her hand smells more intensely of that dangerous cocktail of rain, earth, and sweat that makes my chest tighten in a way that I can’t believe. When was the last time someone was this close to me? When was the last time anyone touched me with anything resembling gentleness?
I part my lips, and she places the granola bar between them. I take a bite, hyperaware of her fingers just inches from my face. Our eyes meet as I chew, and that sparks like electricity and shocks us both, forcing us to look away.
I swallow. "Thank you.”
She nods, still not looking at me. "We should get moving soon. I'll let you go as soon as I can borrow your vehicle."
"Where are you going?" I ask between bites as she continues this strange, intimate feeding.
Naomi hesitates, then gives me a half smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Away. Better that you don't know."
"Sotheycan't ask me?" I push my luck, referring to whoever she accused me of being with last night.
She stiffens, the momentary softness vanishing. "Finish up."
I don't push further. Not yet.
I finish the last bite of the granola bar, chewing slowly—buying time to think. My shoulders are burning now, the circulation to my hands compromised by the bindings. The pressure in my bladder has been building since I woke up, and it is impossible to ignore any longer.
"I need the bathroom," I say quietly, watching her expression shift from cautious to alarmed. "Number one," I quickly add when I see the panicked look spread across her face.
She hesitates, clearly weighing her options. Her eyebrows draw together as she considers the logistics of this situation.
"I'll have to untie you." She states the obvious.
"Yeah."
Part of me hopes she'll just untie me and turn her back. The other part—a part I barely recognize—wonders what would happen if she leaves me bound and has to assist. When did I become such a fucking pervert? Maybe isolation has warped me more than I’ve realized. Or maybe it's just her, something about the way she moves, the way her damp prison uniform clings to her body.
She unties my ankles first. "Don't try anything," she warns, circling behind me to work on my wrists.
The rope falls away, and I groan involuntarily as blood rushes back into my hands. I flex my fingers, wincing at the pins and needles.
"Slowly," she instructs as I rise to my feet, ducking to avoid hitting my head on the tent ceiling. "I'll be right behind you."
The morning air hits my face as I step out of the tent.
"Over there," she directs, nodding toward a cluster of trees a few yards away. "Where I can see you."
I walk stiffly toward the trees, conscious of her eyes on my back. Standing at the edge of the small clearing, I realize she's going to watch the entire process. She keeps her distance but maintains a clear line of sight, the Glock steady in her hands.
Unzipping my pants with tingling fingers, I try to focus on the task at hand rather than the beautiful fugitive observing from twenty feet away.
When I finish, I zip up and turn to face her. For a moment, we just stare at each other across the clearing; predator and prey, though I'm not entirely sure which one of us is which.
"Hands behind your back."
“It’s going to be tough for me to walk on wet terrain with my hands tied. It’ll make the journey a lot longer.”
