Page 171 of Runaways

For the first time in years, I'm looking at my reflection, and the girl staring back at me is someone I recognize.

"How do you feel?" he asks.

"Good," I tell him. "I feel really good."

"You look good. You look happy."

I wrap my arms around the back of his neck. "I am happy," I say before bringing my lips to his. "Your hair is longer than mine now."

"Do you want to cut mine, too?" he asks.

"No way. Never."

"Yeah, I don't thinkneveris going to work for me."

"It works for me, though." I pat his face lightly before leaving the bathroom.

I slip on my shoes and walk out the front door, rounding the side of the cabin toward the backyard.

My happy place.

I have a decent-sized garden of root vegetables and leafy greens, two chickens in my coop, and even a cellar we built where we store our homemade berry wines and whiskey, grow mushrooms, and make other medicinal items for our community.

In a way, I still grew up and became a mad scientist, after all. And Ididgrow up—I'm not stuck at eighteen anymore, I don't have nightmares. I dream of Mia sometimes, and it's always pleasant. Sometimes, it's a relief, and I wake up grateful that my subconscious still remembers her face.

I barely remember my mom's face.

"I can get that for you," Tate says as I pull open the door to the cellar.

"I don't need your help."

"I know you don't," he tells me, opening the other door, anyway.

I smile a little before walking down the staircase. It's funny—I knew I wasn't healthy before, but I really had no idea how weak I was and how much pain I was in until the day I realized I didn't feel it anymore. I'm stronger than I've ever been.

I finally started getting periods again about a year ago. I've been tracking my cycle naturally and staying away from Silas a few days out of the month. While I'm not saying never, I am absolutely saying not right now, which he says he respects but also admits he's been too obsessed with the idea of getting me pregnant for too long to be trusted in the moment.

I realize there's something about that I should find creepy as fuck, and I probably would if it were anyone else, but not when it's him. For whatever reason, when it rolls off the tongue of the guy who killed my mom and forced me into cannibalism, it's sweet.

Like my wines. Like everything else he says.

My ankle still bothers me when the barometric pressure is high, and it's high today. I roll it out when I reach the bottom of the staircase.

The cellar is a small space, and just deep enough for Silas to stand without needing to duck. I run my fingers along the green glass bottles lining the shelves, stopping when I find one of my blackberry wines.

"Hey, get me one of those, too."

I frown. "You can't get mean!" I shout up the staircase. "Last time you drank wine, you got mean."

"I'm not going to get mean."

Sighing, I grab two bottles and head back up the staircase.

"Here," I say, handing him a bottle. "Don't say I never gave you anything."

"Well, I wouldn't ever say that."

"Thank you."

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