Bound to the Enemy Alpha

Janet Thirty minutes. That's all I have before they come back. I sit on the edge of my bed and close my eyes, letting the silence settle over me like a gift I didn't earn. No footsteps. No commands. No Julia's voice cutting through the walls like she owns everything in them which, slowly, she does. My father, Julia, and her daughter left for the Roasting Carnival an hour ago. Nobody asked if I wanted to come. They never do. I breathe in. Out. For once, I don't have to be anything for anyone. For once, I just exist. The door slams open. I don't flinch. I've trained myself out of flinching. Julia stands in the doorway in her cream shawl, arms crossed, wearing that particular smile she uses when she's about to ask for something she has no right to ask. "Janet." Her voice is honey over glass. "The fire is dying. Be a darling and fetch some wood." Not a request. It never is. Every part of me wants to say no. Wants to remind her it's past midnight, that the forest is dark, that I am not her servant. But I know how that ends. "Yes, ma." The words taste like ash. Outside, the night air bites at my skin. In the distance, music drifts from the carnival grounds. laughter, drums, the sound of people living. And here I am, fetching firewood in the dark. I pull my wrap tighter and push into the treeline, following the path I've walked a hundred times. My mind drifts to my mother, to the way she used to hold my hand at festivals like this one, before she died and took all the warmth with her. I shake the memory off. Wood. Fire. Go back. Simple. My foot catches on something. I pitch forward, arms out and the ground beneath me groans. Not ground. A person. I scramble back, heart slamming into my ribs. A man lies half-hidden in the shadows, one arm curled beneath him, his breathing shallow and wrong. My first thought: he's beautiful. My second thought: he's bleeding. Dark stains spread across his shirt, black in the moonlight, pooling in the earth beneath him. Too much blood. Far too much. "Hey." I drop to my knees beside him. "Can you hear me?" No answer. Just the ragged pull of air in and out. I press my hand over the wound without deciding to. His whole body tenses at the contact. Then his eyes open. Dark. So dark. They lock onto mine like he's been looking for me specifically, like he's been waiting, and the world does something strange and still. Then he's gone again. Eyes closed. Body limp. "No." I shake his shoulder. "No, you don't get to do that. Stay awake." He doesn't answer. I sit back and look at him, this stranger, this wounded, impossible man in the middle of Fearlock territory at midnight and I know I should leave. The smart thing. The safe thing. I gather his weight against my side and start pulling. I've never done a smart, safe thing in my life. By the time I reach the house, my arms are shaking and the carnival has gone quiet. They're back. My blood turns cold.