Page 18 of Storm

Finding my senses at last, I spring into action. My bare, dirty, bleeding feet find purchase on the squishy floor, irritating my many wounds. T‌he imposing man walks away from me.

That will not do.

I was dragged to this place blindfolded, kicking and screaming. This man—if I can call him that—is going to find out my true worth. I wasn’t lying when I told the commander he will never have me. The fate of my family has been sealed, and consequently, mine. Tunnel vision takes hold, and all I can see is dark, wavy hair and a well-kept black uniform stretched over a broad back and long legs, retreating as if I am of no consequence.

I’ll make him see.

Ignoring everything around me, I launch myself at the back of the man who just called me his. NEVER. He will never have me.

My closed fists hit hard, unyielding muscle. Each blow on the back of the commander serves to shatter my own bones.

“ENOUGH.” Anger seeps through his tone, and it spurs me on. Grasping both of my wrists in his tight grip, he continues. “That is enough.” I try to pull away, my foot going out to kick his stone leg. Ouch. Instead of hurting the commander, my toe begins to throb. Breathing laboured, I look up, eyeing him with utter contempt.

His features give way to irritation, the composure he once held when his keepers were here gone. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” I spit the words so aggressively, my saliva ends up on the shadow of his beard and his protruding lower lip. A pink tongue comes out to lick. I swallow. Hands tighten around my wrists to the point that I think they will break. “Do it,” I grit out. His plans for me can’t be any worse than the pain I feel in my heart.

“Open.” With our eyes locked in a clash of wills, I don’t understand his meaning until his gaze flashes towards my clenched palms.

“Why?”

“Because I know I’m the only one who has noticed the state of them.” Oh, that. The blisters that have popped and scabbed, red, angry lines from welding burns and new cuts I got a few days ago when a particularly petulant screw decided my palm wasn’t fucked up enough.

Old scabs are no longer old, and solence has stained his otherwise unmarked floor. Good. Teeth on show, I take in the space around me. It looks to be some type of room, about the size of my tent back home, with a small table, cushioned chairs, and lines and lines of books. Taken aback for a moment, my mouth parts slightly, and I close it just as quickly. He hates that I’m messing up his tidy space, with his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and desk that holds a compact screen and a stack of papers, with a pen waiting on top.

Nothing like the messy scraps of blankets on the rubber ground and rickety, welded-too-many-times table and chairs. It’s all too pristine. If not for the waiting papers, I would’ve guessed nobody resided here. Does he sleep here as well?

I release my grip and open the mess between my hands. Hitting his back certainly didn’t help. Solence trickles down the long cut on my left hand, and my scabs on the opposite are half falling off. “If you haven’t already noticed, Lord Commander, my state is because of you.” You. Halo. They are all one in the same to me.

“These”—he released his unmerciful hold on my wrists—“are unacceptable.”

Is this bastard serious? I lean forward—which means I’m now closer to his imposing body—as much as my jailor will allow, and laugh in his unhelpfully enigmatic, sculptured face. It helps to alleviate some of the rage, which is a nice change of pace from the bone-rattling grief that has plagued me since I left the factory.

“These are the hollows’ doing.” Pushing up on my sore feet, I bring my head to his chin. The height difference is making me dizzy.

“Do you often find the need to push against authority?”

“No, just the ones who hurt my family.”

“I haven’t hurt your family.”

“You’re the lord commander of Halo, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Well”—I shove our joined hands against his rock-hard sternum—“you may as well put a bullet in my head now.” There’s a tilt to his lips that I want to slap off, but he still has my wrists, squeezing them a little tighter than before.

“And why would I do that?” He’s not getting it. I’m not here, pushing into his space, hoping to live. Far from it.

“Because if you don’t, I will.” I put all my ire behind the words. So much so that I feel it pulsing out of me. The vexation is palpable. The electricity sparking. A heady aroma of soap lets me know he’s showered recently. Another reason to hate him.

The commander’s head dips to graze my ear. Not expecting the sudden closeness, my breath stalls. “Good thing I keep my weapons locked away.” He’s here and gone, yet my lungs don’t seem to catch up. The man is back to observing my palms. “Come.”

I am heady with bewilderment as he pulls me up to his desk, takes me under the arms, and sits me in the middle of his paperwork—dirt, solence, sourness, and all.

“I did not say you could manhandle me like some unruly child.” I glare at him as he opens and closes the bottom drawer of the desk I sit on.

“I will tend to your wounds as I see fit, if you are to be my wife.”