The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 31

My arms are wrapped around Will's shoulders as I hold him against me, my mouth pressed to his throat's pulse. He murmurs into my ear and I shut my eyes tightly, crying out and feeling myself soar.

I'm not sure how much time has passed before I feel him stirring next to me. He brushes the damp strands of hair away from my forehead and wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against him. I curl my legs and turn to him, burying my head into his chest. I nearly drift off as he gently runs his hands up and down my back, the warmth of him at my front and the coolness from the open window behind me.

"Tell me about your family," he says after a spell, his voice muffled by my hair.

I groan, nestling more securely against him. "Let's not talk about that."

"I want to know everything about you."

"Not that." The drink has nearly worked its way through my system and now I buzz from the sensation of Will. I fight to hold on to the high, but the mention of my family has it slowly evaporating.

"You never talk about them."

"There isn't anything to say. They're dead."

"What happened?"

I groan, pushing away from him and sitting up straight. Will, his grey eyes serious, watches me as I pull the covers around myself.

"Why don't you want to tell me?"

I feel my face growing warm and fight to keep my breathing even. "It's just not something I like to discuss."

He raises himself up onto one elbow and regards me. I look away, fiddling absently with a loose thread in the bed sheet.

After a moment, one of his large hands comes down on mine, ceasing my fidgeting. "Kay."

I bite my lip. "If I tell you, you have to make a promise to me."

"What is it?"

"That nothing will change afterwards."

That half-grin. "That's ridiculous."

"Will."

"Kay." His brows lower sternly and I feel my heart softening. "Knowing you better won't change anything. After all the shit I've done, there's nothing you can say that will scare me off."

I stall a moment longer, tracing patterns on the bedspread before I draw a deep, shaky breath. "All right."

He pats the space in front of him on the bed and I lower myself so that I am lying with my back to him. He curls around me, his arm under my chin. I reach for his outstretched hand and play with his fingers, marvelling at how comparatively small my hand looks.

"Tell me." His voice is low in my ear.

"I was fourteen." I speak robotically, feeling as though I am outside of my body, watching us lying in the bed from a place high above. It is easier to speak when I imagine that I am narrating the story of a stranger. "My father, mother and I lived together in a tiny apartment. Frye—that's my brother—was lost in the Wastelands a few months previous. My father was never the same after Frye died. I don't think he wanted revenge—I think he wanted to create a change."

My father worked long hours in the quarry, but at night he would meet other commoners in our kitchen or down at the Beacon, speaking in low voices about revolution. At one point, it felt as though there was a very real possibility that we would rise up and take a stand against all the injustices wrought upon us by the King and the Court.

I recall coming down to the kitchen late one night to find a single lamp burning and my father sitting at our tiny table with his friends, their heads bent closely together as they spoke in hushed tones. I stomped into the room and slammed my hands down between them.