Page 115 of The Order

“It's a waste of energy,”it bellows, our feelings toward the man finally aligning.

“Purely physical,” Fallan reiterates.

I scoff at him, yanking back my arm in defiance.

“Go to hell,” I spit, turning away, no longer able to stomach the pain of his rejection.

I hear him shift from where he’d been standing during our argument, and there was a brief moment I thought that he’d tell me this was a misunderstanding; that he’d explain what’s truly going on.

Nothing but wishful thinking.

Chapter thirty-eight

Forest

Fallanreachestowardsme,stuffing a small piece of fabric down into my pocket. I run my fingers along the cloth, feeling how the mask folds beneath my touch. He had pulled it free from his jacket only a few moments after we had left his apartment. He pulls the hood of my sweatshirt up and points to the mask.

“It's best if you cover up,” he says sternly. I can tell he’s forcing as much distance between us as possible and going back to the way we used to talk to each other is the first step in that direction.

I drag the mask over my ears, letting it cover the bottom portion of my face. He adjusts the material above my nose, keeping his hands resting along the sides of my face before dropping them back to his sides.

“Your face will be plastered on every Official's communication device,” he finishes, looking down the rickety staircase. “Once we leave this building, I never want to see you here again.” A pit forms in my stomach at the idea of staying away after all that’s happened.

“Hey,” he says, pulling me away from my rapid thoughts. “It will be okay,” he finishes, gently touching my chin.

I nod to make sure he knows I’ve heard him before following him down the staircase.

My head is spinning at the symphony of contradictions that make up Fallan. One moment, his words were sharp as ice, and the next, they were tender and kind. He is unpredictable, and being around his different moods was like being caught in a dance of extremes that left you unsure of your footing.

It's a dynamic that is driving me mad.

Kaiden

I watch Hunter work the dough with gentle precision, kneading and folding it with care. His grandmother had asked him to make the dough for tomorrow’s batch of pastries, exhausting most of her energy making the turnovers earlier today. She seemed happy to let me try one... or three.

He works with a love for the craft, smiling occasionally with a gentle curve of his mouth.

“You can help if you want,” he says after a few moments. My body jolts upright from its seated position next to him at the back counter. I glance at the dough, rolling up my sleeves, careful not to touch anything.

“I- I have no idea how to work with food,” I admit with embarrassment.

I’ve never had to prepare any of my own meals. Everything’s been prepackaged and delivered to my house for as long as I can remember.

“Take these.”

His hands fumble to hand me a pair of gloves, watching me as I gently try to slip my hand into them. The material stretches smoothly over the tips of my fingers, but I struggle to get it completely over my large hands. My brow furrows as I focus, trying not to tear them as I work. I hear Hunter laugh softly; his hand covers his mouth as I turn to him to see what’s so funny.

“Here, let me help,” he starts. My hands continue to fight with the gloves. He works the material down my fingers, easing the gloves on in seconds. I expect him to drop his hands, feeling surprised once he guides them closer to the dough.

“You have to knead it carefully. You don’t want to overwork it,” he says, pushing my palms down into the center of his pastry mix. It's warm beneath my touch.

He stands close to my side, my heart rate picking up at the presence of someone so close to me. He watches me work, never letting up on my hands as they continue moving. I notice how much smaller his hands are to mine while we work together.

“Eventually, it becomes more pliable,” he continues, cutting and weighting a section of the dough. He pulls it aside, forming the rectangular shape with ease. “Now you try,” he says, handing me the scraper. I do my best to mimic his actions, eyeing the uneven cut with a frown. Typically, everything I do comes so quickly to me.

“It looks-”

“Awful,” I finish for him, ready to throw it back into the pile.

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