Chapter 24: I can't… I can't live like this anymore.
Nate watched Skylar's hands blur, slapping the bowl of water with increasing force. Each impact sent droplets flying, a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence. He pretended to be engrossed in a technical manual, detailing solar panel maintenance, but his gaze kept drifting back, catching the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the determined set of her jaw. He'd rigged this whole exercise, making her believe it was about grip strength for her bow. The truth was simpler, and far more dangerous: he was struggling to keep his hands to himself, and this repetitive, arduous task was a desperate, albeit crude, method of channeling his own pent-up energy.
Six months of isolation had honed his self-control to a razor's edge. Palisades Manor, with its echoes of a life he'd never truly belonged to, seemed a distant, nightmarish dream. This cabin, his meticulously crafted sanctuary, was both haven and prison. And Skylar, the woman who had barged into his carefully constructed solitude, was a constant, infuriating distraction.
She finished with a final, sharp thwack, panting slightly. Nate quickly lowered his manual. "Good. That's enough for today."
Skylar wiped her brow with the back of her hand, her movements stiff. She looked at him, her eyes, usually so full of a practiced, entitled glint, now held a flicker of something unreadable. Guilt, perhaps? He dismissed the thought. She was Skylar. Guilt wasn't in her vocabulary.
"What's next?" she asked, her voice already losing its edge of exertion.
"Chess," Nate said, gesturing towards the small table by the window. He'd set up an old wooden board, its pieces worn smooth by countless games long before the world went to hell. It was another way to occupy his mind, another attempt to maintain a semblance of order.
He laid out the pieces, his fingers brushing hers as they both reached for the king. A jolt, like static electricity, shot up his arm. He immediately pulled his hand back, his jaw tightening. He saw her flinch, almost imperceptibly.
"Your move," he said, his voice rougher than intended.
He explained the basic movements, the objective, the strategies in broad strokes. Skylar listened with an unnerving intensity. She was a quick study, absorbing the rules with the same sharp focus she'd applied to the water slapping. But with each passing move, with each shared glance across the checkered battlefield, Nate felt the tension between them coiling tighter.
He avoided her eyes, his attention fixed on the board, on the precise angles of his pieces, on anything but the way her lips curved faintly when she made a clever move, or the way her breath hitched when he leaned in to analyze a particular sequence. He could feel her gaze on him, a persistent warmth that prickled his skin. It was a torment, this proximity, this forced intimacy.
That evening, after a meager meal of canned beans, they sat in a strained silence. Nate busied himself with sharpening his hunting knife, the rhythmic scrape of steel against stone a familiar comfort. Skylar watched him, her expression increasingly troubled.
"You're avoiding me," she stated, her voice quiet.
Nate's hand stilled. He didn't look up. "I'm focused on survival, Skylar. That's all there is."
"No, you're avoiding me." She stood, her movements agitated. "You're acting like I'm some kind of contagion."
He finally met her eyes, and for a fleeting second, he saw a flicker of genuine pain there. It unnerved him. "Maybe I am. Maybe you are."
She flinched again, a more pronounced reaction this time. She turned and disappeared into the small bathroom, the sound of running water a brief respite. Nate returned to his knife, his progress slower, more hesitant. He'd spent years honing his skills, his resilience. But this? This was different. This was chipping away at something fundamental.
When Skylar emerged, wrapped in a thin towel, her hair damp and clinging to her neck, Nate was no longer at the makeshift table. He was gone. The cabin felt suddenly vast and hollow. A wave of something akin to panic washed over her. Was he gone for good? Had he finally decided she was too much trouble?
She dressed quickly, the rough fabric of the borrowed clothes feeling abrasive against her skin. The guilt, a constant, gnawing presence since she'd taken his supplies, intensified. He'd saved her life, given her refuge, and now he was gone, disgusted by her, or perhaps just by the situation he'd found himself in because of her.
Anya. The name echoed in her mind, a whisper of the life she'd left behind. Then, Pierce. His dead eyes, the crimson stain on his throat. The memory sent a shiver down her spine. She was a survivor, and she had done what she had to do. But Nate… Nate was different. He was quiet, competent, and in his own gruff way, he seemed to be trying to protect her. He was training her, not just for her own good, but because he needed her, as an ally. And the way he looked at her, or rather, the way he didn't look at her, spoke volumes.
She sank onto the edge of the narrow bed, the cold seeping through the thin mattress. A profound sense of loneliness washed over her, sharper than any fear of the infected. She'd been so focused on her own survival, on the transactional nature of their arrangement, that she'd failed to see what was unfolding. He was pushing himself away, fighting a battle within himself that she had, inadvertently, ignited.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant creaks of the cabin settling. Suddenly, a thought, unwelcome and startling, bloomed in her mind. This immense guilt, this gnawing frustration, this raw, visceral ache – was it just about the transaction? Or was it something else? She tried to push it away, to rationalize it as a consequence of her situation, of his unusual kindness. But the feeling persisted, a persistent hum beneath her thoughts. Was she… was she falling for Nate? The idea was preposterous, a cruel joke the universe was playing on her.
Later that night, the last of the rabbit meat from their previous hunt was gone. Nate sat at the table, his back to her, meticulously cleaning and oiling his rifle. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since his return. The air between them was thick with unspoken things, with his deliberate distance and her growing unease.
Skylar stood, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She walked to the table, her gaze fixed on his hunched shoulders. She reached out, her fingers closing around his wrist. His skin was warm, surprisingly smooth beneath the calluses.
"Come with me," she said, her voice a raw whisper. She pulled, trying to dislodge him from his rigid stance.
Nate didn't budge. He turned his head slightly, his eyes, when they finally met hers, were dark and troubled. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
"We have to do this right now," she insisted, her grip tightening. "I can't… I can't live like this anymore."
He finally stood, but he didn't pull away from her. He was a solid, unyielding presence. She felt a surge of desperation. "Fuck, Nate, I can't take this anymore," she demanded, her voice cracking. "Let's just go already."
He looked away, his gaze falling on the rifle he'd set down. "We can't," he said, his voice strained. "Not yet. And I can't control myself enough that I won't… I won't want it."
She let go of his wrist, a profound sense of defeat washing over her. Another pang of guilt, sharp and agonizing, twisted in her gut. He was trying so hard to protect them both, and she was pushing him, demanding something he wasn't ready to give, something she wasn't sure she even truly wanted, but desperately needed. Today was a "safe day," a day to retreat, a day to regroup. He was right to resist.
"Fine," she said, her voice brittle. "Be like that." She turned and walked towards the small kitchen area, the fridge a stark white rectangle in the dim light. She opened it, the cool air a brief balm against her heated skin, and reached for a bottle of water. Then, with her back still to him, she walked to the bed and disappeared beneath the covers.
Nate watched her go, a mixture of relief and a deeper, more unsettling turmoil warring within him. He methodically cleaned up the remnants of their meal, put away the dishes, and checked the perimeter of the cabin, ensuring the rudimentary traps were still in place. The weapons were ready, just in case. He then doused the bulbs, plunging the cabin into near darkness.
He crossed to the bed and slipped under the covers, facing the opposite direction from Skylar. He lay there, rigid, his senses on high alert. For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged rhythm of their breathing. Then, he heard it. A choked sob, barely audible.
He tensed, his jaw clenching. "Fucking hell," he muttered, the words a harsh whisper against the silence. "You're crying because I don't want to have sex with you?"
Skylar's response was immediate, a sharp, defensive retort that was almost comical in its ferocity. "Shut the fuck up, you peasant," she spat, her voice thick with unshed tears. "You should be begging me for sex, not the other way around." A low growl of frustration followed. "Fucking asshole." The last word was barely a breath, but Nate heard it.
Suddenly, a strange sound erupted from Nate. A choked, disbelieving laugh, quickly escalating into full-blown laughter, shaking his shoulders. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but one of sheer, incredulous amusement.
"Are you serious?" he asked, the laughter still bubbling up, tears pricking his own eyes. He rolled over, facing her in the darkness, the sounds of his mirth breaking through the heavy tension. "You're calling me an asshole because I'm… because I'm holding back?"
[A/N: If you liked the book then dn't forget to leave a like and commen. Drop a power stone, it helps . If you're interested in this story you can now read 25 chapters ahead available on patreon.com/jacobperalta ]