I can’t sleep. My mind keeps coming back to that kiss. To how I wanted it, how it smelled sweet and fresh, how Declan tasted sweet and slightly minty. Time moved in fits and bursts on the roof, and I don’t know how much of it passed as we were wrapped up in each other, his lips moving down my jaw, across my earlobe, to the sensitive skin just below my ear.
But then I opened my eyes and remembered all the reasons I needed to stop. I’m in a place where I have no allies, and enemies lurk in the shadows. My only friend is furious with me, and likely to become angrier when she finds out how I spent my afternoon.
I wonder if Declan is truly prepared for what he offered? If he really wants to go through another round of this insipid game—as he called it. It’s insane that something so respected, something I believed could change my life, is seen as nothing more than a game by the people who run it. How different everything seems now from the way I thought it would be, all those weeks ago.
I don’t know how long I lay there, lost in the tangle of my thoughts, but I’m grateful when the first rays of sun warm my room with their cool pinks and velvet purples. I roll out of bed and head into the bathroom to prepare the shower. Disrobing, I step inside and pick up the fresh bar of soap, rubbing it between my hands. It smells like mint and basil, and the fresh, sweet aroma envelops me in a new round of memories. I smile and close my eyes as water runs down the top of my head, immersing myself in the sweet fragrance that now reminds me of Declan.
My hand starts to hurt, and I rinse it to examine the sting. The skin on my palm is pink and getting redder by the second. My other hand starts to tingle, and I drop the soap as the pain rapidly shifts from a tingle to a burn. I rinse them off—maybe the mint is too strong? But it quickly accelerates, until my hands are nearly on fire. I adjust the knobs on the shower and nearly jump out of my skin as icy droplets pelt my body, but it does little to quell the burning.
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my shoulders, tears filling my eyes from the scorching pain. The skin on my right hand is blistering. My left hand, which I’m still using sparingly as my fingers heal, doesn’t look nearly as bad, but hurts just the same. I chomp down on my tongue and breathe through my nostrils. There are about a dozen ointments and lotions on the bathroom sink, and I shuffle through them, knocking jars left and right, until I find one labeled aloe vera. I open the jar, wincing at the pinch of pressure against the scorching blisters, reach in for a thick, gelatinous dollop, and coat my hands.
It’s instantly soothing, and gives me a chance to let out a long, shuddering sob. The faucet is still running, pelting the bar of soap that lies prone on the shower floor. I pick it up with a washcloth, wrapping it carefully in the fabric to avoid contact with my blistering skin. I slip into a simple sheath dress that requires no buttoning or zipping, careful not to get the aloe on the material. My hands start to burn again, and I apply another layer of the salve. Then I pick up the wrapped bar of soap and wince as I grip my door handle, heaving open the door.
I’m not sure where to go. Dean Edina is in charge; she should be able to get to the bottom of this. But she wasn’t sympathetic to Deena, or the other girls who left early, and when Molly and I thought our recipe had been tampered with, she didn’t seem to care. Declan would worry, or say he told me so, and if he were to report this, whoever did it will know that I complained, that I was rattled. Plus, superficial as it may be, after spending the entire night thinking about him and our kiss, I’m not sure this is how I want him to see me next: wet hair, red eyes, broken and blistered skin.
I’m down the back staircase before I even fully know where I’m going. But then I’m halfway across the lawn, stumbling past the hedge maze, and I know there’s only one person who can help. By the time I reach the cabin, my hands are burning again and tears fog my vision. I try to knock, but the action of curling my fingers makes me yelp. I lift my foot to kick the door, but it swings inward before I can. Beck stands there, bare chested, his eyes much clearer than the rest of his sleep-crusted face.
“Help me?” I whisper, holding up my hands and the washcloth containing the bar of soap. He nods quickly and ushers me inside.
It doesn’t take long for him to find something for the injury. It’s a chemical burn, and a good one, from what he can tell. He thoroughly cleans my hands with an ugly bar of soap that smells like licorice. It hurts like hell, and I wince with each sharp sting. He curses with a clever finesse that makes me laugh, even as I bite back the pain and the tears. Finished, he then coats them in a thick salve that smells like evening tea and something slightly fishy.
“Where did you say you found this?” he asks, examining the soap.
“It was in my shower,” I say, sniffling. He’s put on a shirt, and tidied up his cabin. Hunched now over the tiny bar of soap, he looks too big for his thin shirt and fitted canvas pants.
“And you didn’t wonder where it came from?” he asks, looking up. My cheeks flush hot, and I shake my head as he sets the wicked bar, still in its impeccably white washcloth, on the table next to a basin of water.
“You were in your room all night, right? It just magically appeared?” His voice is tight and measured, much like the way his fingers gently apply another layer of goop to my blistered skin. A cold chill rushes down my spine, but then Beck rubs the salve into my palm, and it’s quickly replaced by pulsing pain.
“I thought maybe it was a gift,” I say between clenched teeth.
“From who? The soap fairy? I hate to break it to you, but that broad ain’t real.” He looks up from my hands and rocks back in his chair.
“What?”
“Aw man, don’t tell me Prince Bilgehurler the Wonder-Dilp finally got to you. That’s so disappointing. I thought you were going to beat this thing!”
“I’m sorry, what was that name? Is that his formal title?” I ask, biting my lip, trying not to laugh.
“No, his formal title is actually Prince Bilgehurler of Wonder-Dilp, Duke of Lamederper.”
“Funny, I guess I’ve never heard his full name before. Or maybe it’s just your accent.”
“So, you got close to the dilpsnogger and someone planted this in your shower?” I shrug, curling my legs under me on the end of his bed. Somewhere between applying the salve and tying his hair into a perfectly piratical knot on top of his head, he’s made the bed so neatly that it doesn’t feel awkward to be sitting on it.
“I don’t know why anyone would do this. I don’t want him.”
“They don’t really care what you want.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“You really think you’re gonna be allowed to say no at the end of this—if that’s what it comes to? I mean, what’s your other option, Miss Independent?” His green eyes are dark and murky, but his meaning is clear.
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“You sure about that?” he asks, looking back down at the soap. “Look, everyone knows he’s supporting you, which says more than I think you realize. It’s unorthodox, and it’s just not done. So it squares the target on your back. And now, you’ve got nobody defending it, and everyone’s lining up to take a shot.”
“But this is so specific,” I say. I didn’t see anyone after the roof, or tell them what happened. The only way they could have known is if . . . someone must’ve seen.
“Specific, how?” he asks, his voice strangely devoid of emotion. My cheeks feel hot with the embarrassment of having to confess that I’m exactly the type of girl I claimed I didn’t want to be.
“He kissed me yesterday, in the herb garden.” My cheeks flush, and I can’t look at him as I mumble the rest of it. “We were standing between the mint leaves and the basil.” He rocks back from the table, lifting the front two legs of his chair off the ground.
“Well, isn’t that special,” he says. I look up as he crosses his arms and pulls an exaggerated, dreamy smile. Still, there’s something hard in his eyes as he lets his chair legs bang into the floor. His gaze wells with an indistinguishable emotion, like a fresh cut.
“I don’t need the color commentary,” I say, biting down on my tongue. I will my hands to stop burning, so I can leave before I’m humiliated any further.
“Look, it’s simple. Somebody saw you and Wunderbulge on the roof, rubbing each other, or whatever the hell you were doing—”
“It was a kiss,” I say, angry now. “And you can call him Declan.” He pauses. Slowly, he lifts his eyebrows, and nods.
“Okay, it was a kiss. But someone saw you and planted this scented little time bomb, counting on the fact you’d think it was from him. Thank goodness for that whopper of a sting, or you might not have felt it until you had it all over your body. There’s enough peppermint oil in this bar to burn through fabric.”
“Why would someone do this?” I ask. He looks down his nose at me, pressing his lips together as he scratches his unshaven cheek. He doesn’t actually have to answer. I’m not an idiot.
“I can’t fight this,” I say, shaking my head. Emotion rises up my chest. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t dissipate.
“You just have to be more careful,” he says, leaning forward.
“How?”
“Well, for starters”—he stands and crosses the room, digs through a bag, and then pulls out a small rectangle wrapped in white tissue—“use this soap, instead.” He drops it unceremoniously in my lap.
“Thank you,” I say.
“And keep it on you. Don’t give someone the opportunity to mess with your things. I probably wouldn’t use any of your makeup without some help, if you can manage it.”
“Is there a situation in which you would use my makeup?” I ask, fighting back a wry grin as I imagine Meredith applying layers of product to his olive skin. He rolls his eyes, but his lips betray a sneak of a smile.
“Let me think on it.”
“Great. That’s actually really great—perfect excuse to not wear it.”
“You don’t need it, anyway,” he says, almost as an afterthought, but it throws me. Is it an insult or a compliment? He doesn’t give me time to respond. “You’ll need thicker skin and a strong stomach. This probably isn’t the last of it. This soap is pretty intense, but if this doesn’t get you to leave, there will be more where it came from.”
“More intense than flesh-burning soap? Great.”
“Yeah, well, you decided to do this.”
“What other choice did I have?”
“You always have a choice,” he says, his words plain. “It might be a shitty one, but you always have a choice. Sometimes, you just need to know how to ask for another option.”
“What’s my other option?” I ask, and he smiles.
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” I wrinkle my eyebrows and look around. I’m in his cabin. And not for the first time. But I’m not sure what it is he’s getting at.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Would anyone else have thought to come here for help?” he asks. I shake my head. “Who would they have gone to?”
“Dean Edina? Declan?” I spout off my first two thoughts. Maybe some of the others—Fiona—would have gone to Siobhan to appeal to their would-be future mother-in-law, but I doubt she’d have been sympathetic to me.
“Why didn’t you go to them?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head.
Beck squats in front of me, so his knees are on either side of my calves, just barely brushing them. He presses his square hands on the tops of my knees and aligns his eyes with mine, so I can’t look away.
“Yes, you do,” he says, looking at me hard. My cheeks get hot as I process what being here means, but I can’t find the words.
“I don’t!”
“Why didn’t you tell Edina or Declan?”
“Because I don’t want their help?” I ask.
“No, that’s not it. Come on, Arden! I know the answer to this. How are you such a stranger to yourself?” Everything feels hot and itchy, and I don’t know what to say. I came here because it was my only option. I couldn’t trust anyone else. It wasn’t safe enough. It was barely safe to cross the lawns and risk being seen by the guards. But I needed Beck’s help, because without him—without it, I wouldn’t make it. Whoever attacked me will never let up, and I’m scared of what will happen to me on my own. But the intensity in his gaze, the way he holds himself so still, level with my knees—I don’t think that’s the answer he’s looking for, and I hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I don’t know what else to say.
“I don’t know what you want me to say? I didn’t go to them because I’m afraid of what they would say? Afraid they’d make me go home? Afraid they’d tell the other girls, and they’d know they’d won? That I’m too weak for this?”
“You’re not weak.”
“Yes, I am! Look at me!” I say, my words getting caught in a gut-punch laugh as tears prick my eyes. He doesn’t coddle me, though, doesn’t relent, just keeps watching.
“You’re not weak. You’re anything but weak. Look how far you’ve come. You’re sitting here with sprained fingers, a hornet sting, and a chemical burn, deep scratches on your heart, and a brutal scar on your hip. You think these bumps and bruises make you weak? It’s the opposite.”
“That doesn’t make me strong,” I say, my voice an almost whisper.
“It doesn’t?”
“I just put up with that stuff.”
“No.” His voice is so strong, so adamant, it stops my tears before they can fall. He shakes his head, and a small smile curls the corners of his lips, exposing the small dimple in his right cheek that I’ve only seen once before.
“No, what?”
“No, you didn’t just put up with it,” he says, his chin tilted down, his green eyes vivid and focused. “Tell me why you didn’t tell Edina or Declan.”
“I don’t know,” I say, swallowing back tears.
“You do, Arden. You didn’t just live through all of that—you acted. You survived. Very different.”
“You’re saying I didn’t go to them because I’m a survivor?” My chest heaves as something pulses to life and the tears spill over.
“Damn right, you’re a fucking survivor. You’re a fighter, and you’re going to get through this, because that’s the only thing you know how to do.” He presses his hands into my shaking shoulders and brings his forehead to rest against mine. I close my eyes and feel the solid warmth of his skin, his presence.
“Say it again,” he says, holding my shoulders tight.
“I’m a survivor.” My words are a whisper, low and uncertain.
“Make me believe it,” he says, squeezing my shoulders.
“I’m a survivor.” Louder this time, firmer.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I’m a survivor.” The words come from a voice I’m not familiar with, from a girl I’ve never met, who’s been quiet far too long. But I believe them—I believe her. He leans back and grins.
“Damn straight.”