Page 23 of Evolved

No matter how good it feels.

Moving slowly, I pull my hands away from where they’re tucked under his armpits and slowly lift my torso off him.

That reveals more distractions.

Unfortunately, exposing his nakedness also exposes mine, and I realize what I hadn’t noticed until just now.

The space between my legs is pressing directly against his bare thigh, just below his rucked-up briefs, where he’s sporting a … rather large … morning erection.

My mouth goes dry as I stare down at his briefs and wonder if he did the same to me? Did he look between my thighs as he stripped me?

It was dark. Maybe he didn’t.

He will definitely, however, have realized I don’t shave down there. He’ll have felt that clearly where I was pressed against him.

All

night

long.

There’s an odd feeling like he took a secret from me, even if he did it to save me. It reminds me of how his eyes used to feel like battering rams.

Friend.

I remind myself again.

Trust.

I tuck the drapery-turned-blanket back around him, confirm his eyes are well and truly closed, and tiptoe my naked self across the cool room to where my coat and clothes hang over chairs around the fire.

They’re all still wet on the non-fire side, as is everything that was in my backpack. I spend a minute sifting through it and find the book soaked to the point of uselessness, my spare clothes too, and Gran’s pills gone entirely, the gun is wet. If it will work is to be determined.

More problems to solve.

A blue embroidered throw blanket covered in beads and tassels rests on a wingback chair. Knowing the Alwestons, it is probably an actual antique, and some Victorian woman sewed itby hand using threads of silk and gold.

It smells vaguely dusty and musty, but I drape it over myself gladly, take a final look at the sleeping man on the sofa, my heart doing an odd clench at the sight of him, and draped in embroidered beads, I bolt for the kitchens.

It smells like Gran has started coffee.

Time to finish our argument from last night.

GRAN HAS ALWAYS TAKENexcruciating care of her appearance, found time to sneak on blush and lipstick to brighten her cheeks, to brush her hair carefully, never letting us see her face bearing so much as an imprint of exhaustion.

She’s no different now, her hair carefully brushed, her lips painted a soft mauve, wearing a thick cashmere robe I imagine she found upstairs.

She’s seated in a chair at the breakfast table, staring out at the grounds beyond.

This is an old house, originally built in the seventeen hundreds, but renovated to add this kitchen off the back. A fireplace sits near the breakfast table, thick, old red bricks, but the rest of the kitchen is made of old wood beams and glass thick enough to keep the cold out. Sitting on the table before her is a protein bar, her handgun, and a mug of steaming coffee.

At some point during the night, the rain shifted to ice, and a sheet of it covers the plants and trees outside.

Pale light pours in to gild one side of Gran’s face where she sits, holding one of the bottles of pills in her hand.

She shakes it softly, and they rattle like tic tacs. “I found them in your backpack,” she says quietly, curling her fingers around the bottle, and I realize what this is. Gran’s a veteran speech giver. She’ll have been sure to pack concealer and lipstick in herown go bag. She waited for me now for precisely this ambush. “I have my own pills, Ottilie. I’m not senile. I don’t need you going back for books on kidneys and nearly getting shot or falling into storm drains to avoid bumping into me.”

“Those are just backups.”

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