When Wings Burn

13.5 | HARPER

"Again, I'm so sorry," he says, reclining into a sitting position on the floor.

"Does my mother know?"

I don't mean to interrupt, but the way he's sitting, as if this is his home, as if he has a right, as if his presence doesn't endanger my mother and I to levels of death. It makes me think of the real owner of this home, my darling mother, frail and fighting in bed, a few stairs away.

He gives a small shake of his head, unperturbed. "She didn't see me come in."

"Oh," I say. Everything is strangely still in my mind. I feel as if I should be hyperactively analyzing the situation, but all I can think is, he's here, and I don't know why, but I can't find the panic I should be feeling.

"I saw you the other night," Tate says, gesturing out my open window. I flinch a little when he raises his hands, my heartbeat spiking, and his eyes see it all. He places his hand back on the floor and it remains there, unthreatening as possible.

"I know," I say, closing the book in front of me. I wonder if he reads, what he reads, if he knows I've been trying to source information about what he might be.

"You were staring," I point out.

He nods. "I did." And then as way of explanation, "You were beautiful in the moonlight." He shrugs genuinely, as if the compliment is perfectly natural. "How could someone not stare?"

Nobody has ever called me beautiful, other than my mother, who is so stunning the compliment almost seems bare. I pause in response, taking it in. Tate must surely know he himself is a creature of shocking beauty. The sharp lines of his jaw, the deepness of his eyes, the way his lips rest against those startling teeth...

"Oh," I say as a buffer while I gather my thoughts.

My lack of social experience is hard on me right now. It seems the right time to say something, but what, exactly? Do I compliment him back? Say thank you? Is thank you too arrogant? Do I act like I don't believe him?

I panic. I can't say he's beautiful too.

I'm all too aware of those dark and obscure eyes watching me laughingly for a final response, but my brain is a chaotic wasteland and I have nothing to say.

I stand, and turn, taking a book with me. Area Seven, Making History. The book itself is sold as if full of recaps on individuals who made the number Seven and the area affiliated known for more than its dull green valleys and influx of agriculture. In reality, it is a guide for raising sheep and growing mundane vegetables. There is nothing that interests me less, but I'm desperate for information. Anything, even a sentence that perhaps touches on 'suspicious activity' in this book would give me hours of thought, though I've finished the book and read any chapters I found with vague possibility twice. Nothing. The government officials are trained at their editing work and it seems they have been successful.

"That looks fascinating," Tate says, and when I turn, he nods at the book I hold.

I scoff. "Hardly. Unless you're interested in – "

"Raising sheep," Tate finishes deadpan, as if raising sheep is a completely appropriate aspiration for a young girl in an area that appreciates education and business.

"You know Area Seven," I say, unsure if I'm surprised or not.

"I've read the book," he counters without missing a beat. "You could drop me into paddock right now, and I would have a herd of sheep and a few pumpkins growing by the end of the week."

Like butter on a summer's day, my tension melts away. I cough away a laugh. His face is utterly serious, as if he really truly appreciates mundane agriculture. His eyes flicker, though. I know he's laughing too.

I relax a fraction. It is strange to me, the ease in which he seems to be enjoying himself. I've lived an exclusively serious life. I haven't laughed much before. His smiling makes me want to, but laughing is another social manner I'm not accustomed with, so I close my lips and converse politely, the way my mother showed me how.

"You read a lot, Harper."

That voice. He said my name.

It's an observation, not a question. Tate stands, waits for me to step aside, and moves over to the books. I notice how he's avoiding cornering me in one place, how he's aware of his physical height and strength and is deliberately not intimidating me with it. The general concern is new to me. A digging heat touches my stomach when I think of this, and the sensation is both safe but painful.

"You're so tall," I point out while he looks over the history books. He grins up at me quickly.

"Genetics," he says offhandedly. "Can't do anything about it."

I'm just about to ask him where said generics came from when there's an unmistakable knock from the front door downstairs.

The throaty voice is clear, loud and unfamiliar.

"Inspection."