Human Bait

Chapter 8: Two Weeks

"Hey, Southie. Wake up."

I grumbled a protest as I rolled over on the couch, one arm flipping over the side.

"You need to eat, alright? Then you can go back to sleep."

When I peeled my eyes open, the sun already lit the room in a fuzzy glow. My words blended. "What time is it?"

"It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon."

"Hmm." I closed my eyes again. "Then wake me up at four."

A chuckle. Then a hand grasped my arm and wrenched me up to sitting. I gasped and squinted through the light to glare at the intimidating figure before me. But the anger evaporated the moment a warm bowl of porridge pressed into my hand.

Recluse edged back a couple of steps and watched me devour the porridge. When I finished the entire bowl, he stepped forward to take it from me and nodded at the couch.

I slumped back down on the couch pillow and murmured an automatic "Thank—" before cutting it off with a swallow. Luckily, Recluse was already heading back toward the door.

* * *

I slept through most of the first day, waking up just to eat, use the bathroom, and turn up the electric heater. The second and third day, I tested my leg by walking around the room. Then I perused a couple of academic books tucked into the back of a shelf beside the dusty mantle. The history book painted the Northern Noble Forces as the hero and the South as the villain in every dispute, and the science book spewed outlandish theories about the virus created by "Looney Lazora."

Recluse only entered to bring me food, bandages and antiseptic, bathwater, and more oversized clothing. He barely spoke or even looked at me. Each time I saw him, I pushed myself to seize the opportunity. But the men who rewarded me in the past had been desperate and lonely, and this one oozed indifference and self-reliance. And so a different instinct won out—to hide, to stay quiet, to not draw attention to myself.

The days trickled by with the slow inevitability of a gentle stream. Four days, five, then six. Walks around the room grew easier. I finished the books and started them over again.

On the seventh morning, Recluse handed me a bowl of porridge and broke the silence.

"How's your leg, Southie? Walking alright?"

Foreboding squeezed my chest. He had promised two weeks, but maybe he was sick of me already. I had wasted this time together, and now I was too late. I fingered the bowl, though my gaze traced Recluse's boots planted on the carpet at shoulder width, the captivating asymmetry in the lines of his jean-clad legs, the thumbs hitched into his pockets, the relaxed hips. A snug gray sweater hugged his muscular chest and broad shoulders. Ether, had I really thought this masterpiece could want me?

Failing to fabricate a better plan, I admitted the truth. "It's getting better. I can walk."

A satisfied hum. "Good. You'll have to get your own lunch and dinner because I'll be out shopping. Well, free-shopping."

I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze, furrowing my brow. "Shopping for what?"

"Seems my provisions are dwindling more quickly than usual."

Though I heard no bitterness in his voice, I tightened my grip on the bowl and swallowed. "Well, maybe I can help. Might be safer with two people, right?"

A single beat of laughter erupted deep from his chest. "You want to help? Do you even know how to shoot a gun?" He shook his head. "No, it's safer by myself. Anyway, the Infected don't bother me."