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I clucked my tongue sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Andrew.”

He flinched at the use of his first name. I couldn’t help it, though; I felt terrible for him, and he deserved in that moment to be treated as a person, not a soldier. Not a fixture of this regime. The only medicine for grief was human connection, and despite everything we were taught here in the compounds, it was my Wastelander who taught me that.

“She doesn’t know her mom is gone,” he said, and for the first time, there was a tremor in his voice. “She’s been under for almost a year now.” He cleared his throat. “We got nobody else, so I’m the only one who visits her now, even though it might be pointless. They say the chances of her waking up aren’t great.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said again, unsure what else to say. My eyes drifted toward the door of the hospital room, and I bit my lip. “Would it be okay if I visited her?”

Hamilton sounded distracted as he answered, “Sure. Think I have to go back in anyway; I forgot my bag.”

I followed him into the small room. A young girl with rich, deep skin and beautiful long eyelashes lay in the bed, hooked up to many different monitors and machines. There were tubes going in her nose, and she wore maroon-coloured pyjamas with cartoon lions printed on them. Her pretty coiled hair was scraped into twin twists on either side of her head, with pink hair elastics adorned with little butterflies. The trappings of childhood juxtaposed with her deathly stillness broke my heart. She could easily be one of my students. For someone who loved her, seeing her like this must be devastating.

“She’s lovely,” I said to Hamilton with a sad smile. “You must miss her very much.”

He appeared to wrestle with some deep emotion before simply answering thickly, “Yeah.”

He’d retrieved his bag from the chair, along with his Personal Identification Device, which was a small handheld device that all soldiers carried. They used them to sign in and out of shifts, and for communication with one another on patrol. I stared at it, a thought occurring to me. I’d seen him use it to open doors before. Could it be used for…?

“I appreciate you coming by, Ainsley,” Hamilton said gruffly, interrupting my train of thought. “I know that you’re probably not my biggest fan, given how things have gone. But Maya’s care relies on me doing my job. I don’t want to think about what would happen if…”

He trailed off, and I suddenly understood. They’d threatened him, at some point, when he’d questioned his orders. They’d suggested that if he wasn’t willing to play ball, then perhaps they wouldn’t be willing to care for a little girl who’d already been in a coma for a year and had only a fleeting chance of recovery anyway. I thought it possible—if not likely—that had Major Hamilton not been of the rank he was, Maya’s care would’ve been ceased long ago.

So, his loyalty to Julius and to this regime wasn’t born of his politics, or any particular conviction to the cause. There was a deeply personal cost for his disobedience.

I touched Maya’s small hand, then smoothed the bedspread.

“I understand, Major,” was all I said as we left the room, slowly mulling over the beginnings of an idea.

Chapter 17

Claire

Two nights later, I was sitting on the bed in the master suite, trying to watch TV and failing. It’d been two days of radio silence from John, and despite his promise to meet me, I doubted they’d be able to find a way. The only time I was even alone was at night.

I rolled onto my side to look at the bedside clock, wincing as a lump under my pillow poked at me. They’d given me a bottle of sleeping pills after my ear surgery, but I didn’t like how sleepy they made me, so after one dose, I’d shoved the bottle under the pillow and forgot about it. Besides, my ear felt completely normal now, and my lack of sleep had more to do with missing John than it did with pain.

It was eleven o’clock, and I had a public event to attend tomorrow, but I resisted the urge to sleep. I’d just dream about John again, and wake up horribly disappointed at how empty the bed was. Last night, it made me cry until my eyes were puffy and sore. I was in no hurry to relive that.

Instead, I rose from the bed and walked to the vanity table on the other side of the room, right next to the door to the balcony that looked out on the back garden. I picked up the ornate hairbrush from the vanity and started brushing my hair, if only for something to do. John loved my hair, and occasionally, on nights when I was especially tired, I’d let him brush it. It was such a nice, tender memory, and while I watched myself in the mirror, I imagined he was here now, stroking the brush through my hair and telling me how soft my hair was, how pretty.

I relaxed into the reverie, feeling comfort for the first time in days…until a small stone hit the balcony door.

I blinked, setting my hairbrush on the vanity. Despite my best efforts, wild, desperate hope bloomed in my chest. A full minute passed in silence. I stared at the glass, wondering if I had imagined it.…and then another stone hit the glass, determined and precise.

I leapt to my feet and went to the balcony, wrenching the door open just in time to see my foolish, wonderful husband lifting himself up and over the railing, silent and quick as a cat. He’d clearly hopped the fence into the garden, then climbed up the rose-covered trellis against the brick wall of the house.

“You brilliant, insane man,” I hissed at him, even as my heart swelled with longing. “What are you doing here? It’s not safe.”

John cocked a brow. “Is that any way to greet your husband? I told you I’d figure out how to meet you.”

“You’re taking a huge risk.” I tried to stay stern, but my voice faltered. Unlike the last time I’d seen him, he was dressed like himself now: practical camo pants and a black t-shirt that hugged his biceps. He didn’t have his rifle, but his pistol and knife were holstered at his hip. The bluebird charm I’d made for him—the paint now softly peeling—was still attached to his belt, dangling next to it. My throat seized at the sight of it.

I’d missed him so.

“It’s alright,” John said softly. “The White Rose disabled the camera in the garden for a few minutes while I came in. They’ll do it again in two hours, when I have to leave. We have some time.” I noticed he was wearing a wristwatch—something I’d never seen him wear before, because exact time mattered a lot less in the Wasteland.

Time. It was all I’d wanted with him for weeks. His amber eyes were pure warmth, drinking me in with a rapacious thirst that moved from my eyes to my lips to my breasts, barely concealed by the thin satin nightgown. My nipples peaked under his gaze, and for a brief moment, we simply stared at one another. The air between us thinned, like a taut cord pulled tighter, and tighter, and—

John made it to me in two strides and crushed his lips to mine. He didn’t waste time with tender, gentle kisses; he plundered my mouth with his tongue. His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me snugly against his strong, lean body, and his other hand twisted in my hair. I gasped against his lips as my arms went around his neck, holding onto him for dear life.