I, Cassandra

33 | CASSANDRA VALLIS

I stop at the end of the bed. The duvet and blanket lay shoved into a heap, exposing a triangle of pure white. It beckons to me, offering the escape of sleep. Miro rouses from within a puddle of warmth, turns full circle and settles back into the same spot. Numb, I watch her slip back into oblivion, the steady rise and fall of her thin frame.

Silence pours from the corridor, taut with everything left unsaid. My heart clenches. All this time, it was him. The dream of being cradled in his arms in the transport assaults me, my name on his lips, his mouth brushing against mine. It wasn't a dream. I close my eyes and shut out the luxury of the world he has brought me into. The memory of him returns, of who I lost, his body moving over mine slow, tender. The solidness of his arms around me the last time he made love to me. Ryan. Tears scathe my eyes. I shove them away and swallow the dull ache in my throat.

What's left of me.

The private look in his eyes as he admitted the truth violates me more than the soldier who raped me at The Jackpot. I know Ryan is out there on the other side of the door, haunted by the past, trapped in the body of another man. A stranger. I turn, both drawn and repelled by who he is, what he is. The door faces me. Implacable. Cold, like the blank screen I had thought was a window, but was a lie.

A knock. Quiet.

No. It's too soon. I am not ready to face him.

'Blue?'

I say nothing. My nickname on the lips of whatever he has been turned into sickens me. He's not even real. Under his skin, the sterile beat of a machine. I shudder and turn my back to the door. Ryan is dead. Whoever that is, is not him. I can't, won't accept it. I mourned him. He's gone. He died in Lubochnia.

A tentative click as the handle releases. I fold my arms over my chest and turn my back to him, eyeing the dark depths of the wall screen. Its opaque surface catches the brute outlines of his body as he comes in and closes the door, soft. His footfalls approach, slow, wary. He comes to a halt, close enough for me to feel the heat of him. I want to step away from him. My legs won't move. He takes a ragged breath.

'I'm here.' He steps closer. 'Don't turn around. Don't look at me. Just listen.'

His Slavic accent digs into me. Loneliness claws at me. In the wall screen, I catch movement, the tight shake of his head, his loss of what to say. There are no words. Take me back to London, I want to say. Even The Jackpot is better than this nightmare. But I don't. I wait. Because I realise I still love him. Even like this. Even though I know I shouldn't.

'Blue,' he breathes. My body trembles, betrays me.

I close my eyes and try not to think of the one he has become. 'You are safe here,' he continues, low. 'I swear I won't touch you. All I want to do is protect you.' He scoffs. 'It's all they left me.'

'They left you your memories,' I breathe, hating myself for allowing him to talk to me as him. Betrayal and fury push through the silence of my heart, like the blistered flesh of a roasted cockroach seeking escape from its prison. A prison meant to keep it alive.

A memory of him riding me hard in the shower at The Jackpot shatters me. It was our first time. I fell in love with him that night. I dreamed of him beside me every night he wasn't there. And now . . . A surge of adrenaline swarms my senses. Desire slams into me, the anger, rage at the unfairness of it all. Images flicker at the edge of my mind. I stamp them out and haul on my emotions, knowing where it will lead if I don't. I don't want to see what is coming next. All I want is to die. Then they can wipe his memory and we can cease to exist, together.

'If only they had let you forget,' I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

'You would have died if I did.'

I want to be angry, but I'm slaughtered by the weight of his longing even through the taint of his accent. I turn. His hand clamps onto my shoulder, the other catches my chin, forces me back around, to keep looking forward. I can feel the brutal power of him under his flesh—his ability to crush my jaw with the merest effort. I hold still. Fear, so much a part of me, rears its ugly head. I submit, though I sense it is not what he wants.

'Don't look at me.' He slides his fingers from my jaw, slow, grazing my neck. It's not seductive, but I taste arousal, hot and sharp. I close my eyes and will whatever is happening to me to stop. He's a machine. Ryan is gone.

Silence rams itself between us. I wait. Miro chirps in her sleep, soft, plaintive, dreaming of hunger in a world of plenty.

'You don't have to do it,' he says. 'I—'

I hold still. He exhales, tight.

'I can't be a part of this. They can wipe my memory. If I have to lose you to protect you, I will.' His hand leaves my shoulder, sweeps a path against my hair, his touch wrong, all wrong, yet his words . . .

Fatigue slams into me. I lean back into his heat. He catches me, his arms encircling me, gentle, cautious. He feels nothing like I remember. He's bigger, harder, stronger. And yet, the way he holds me is the same.

'I need to sleep,' I whisper. I feel the nod of his head. Then I am lifted, carried to the bed. I don't open my eyes. Ryan.

He lays me down. I feel his gaze on me. The sweep of the material of his fatigues fills the quiet as he walks around the bed. I think he is leaving, and yearn for his return, though I don't know why. It's not him. It's someone else.

The door doesn't open. I wait, my heart tight. His weight comes down on the bed beside me. His arms capture me, and again I am against him, sheltered, safe, warm. Loved. I think of him, and let him kiss my brow as I fall asleep and dream of the one who died in the fires of Lubochnia, my name lost on the last breath of his lips.