Page 22 of Juniper Unraveling

“What’s over there?” I ask, ignoring his comment.

He sets his spoon down, eyes drilling into me. “Did you go into the woods?”

“There’s an electric fence, Papa. To keep us out.”

“And it does a fine job of keeping most out. But you’re not most.” Spoon in hand again, he returns to his food, eating much faster than before. It’s clear to me that he’s doing his usual hurry-up-and-eat-before-she-asks-anymore-questions thing, before he’ll sneak away into his study, where I’ll undoubtedly have to wake him to go to bed.

“Something is there. A factory. Or a hospital.”

“Stay away from the North side. Is that clear?”

“But what is it? What’s there?”

“You’re not to return. Or there’ll be consequences.”

“Is it a hospital? Is that where you worked?”

The slamming of his fist against the table skates down my spine, as it rattles the dishes and soup sloshes over the edge of the bowls.

“Damn it, Wren! Stay away! Do you hear me? That forest is no place for a naïve young girl!”

His eyes are cold and cruel, his lip peeled back into an angry snarl, the likes of which I’ve not seen on him before. It’s rare I test his patience, and the sudden remorse leaves me bowing my head in shame for angering him. I know its love that governs his harshness, his yearning to protect me. Tears distort the view of my hands set in my lap.

“Yes, Papa.”

Silence so thick I can scarcely draw in a breath lingers between us, and that’s when the first needle of frustration pokes at me. The mishmash swirling inside my head keeps the tears from falling, and my hands come back into sharp view with their retreat. I want to scream back at him, even if I’m supposed to be grateful for being one of the blessed. One of the privileged who live behind the wall that separates us from the ugly world we’re not supposed to be curious about.

He stands up from the table, leaving his bowl and spoon, but instead of disappearing as I expect, he returns with a flickering lamp that he sets down onto the center of the table. A soft caress at the side of my wrist, below the bracelet that covers my scar, brings me staring back at him, as he sits with his brows upturned. There have been few times when he’s angered by something I’ve done, and each time, he makes a point to stroke my scar.

“I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m merely concerned for your safety, Wren. If anything were to happen to you …” His brows pinch together, and he shakes his head as if shaking those thoughts out of his mind. “Please do not return to those woods again.”

“Okay, Papa.” I set my hand atop of his to keep him from caressing the ruined skin there. “I won’t.”

Chapter 7

Wren

Dawn filters in through my window that faces the lush green of the carob tree outside. At the click of the front door downstairs, I roll over, staring up at the white ceiling. It’s lesson day, which means Papa will be home earlier than usual, for math and science studies. There was a time I looked forward to his teachings, but my daily explorations have tugged my curiosity elsewhere.

Okay, a boy has tugged my curiosity.

A boy I’m no longer permitted to see.

I pull the pillow from beneath my head and slam it against my face, groaning into the muffled cotton.

My mind wanders to the last time I saw him. His strong jawline. His blue eyes. His lips. A boy shouldn’t have such full and symmetrical lips—particularly one so neglected and wounded. And his eyes shouldn’t carry the weight of the sea while holding the endless blue of the sky.

Beneath the cover of the pillow, I allow my hands to drift along my throat as I imagine his lips there. A tickle of excitement shoots down my spine, and a strange sensation tingles between my thighs.

The boys here are certainly handsome and strong, but there’s something about Six that fascinates me.

He’s ruined with scars. Mute. And far hungrier than any other boy I know. But there’s grit about him. One that allows him to walk amongst the Ragers and endure the kind of pain that marks his skin—a hidden curiosity that intrigues me to no end.

Watching him eat has to be the most riveting thing I’ve ever seen—his intense focus as he holds the fruit in his palms, as if it’s his last meal. The juices leaking out of the corner of his mouth, while he devours a fig, spreading it open to the soft flesh, from where he sucks the fruit into his mouth, lapping up the sweetness with his tongue.

I tip my head back to the pitiful sighs echoing inside my head, like wind through the trees, ones he makes while eating that remind me of an appreciative moan.

Those taunting thoughts draw my hand down along my belly, beneath the sheets, until I reach the apex of my thighs. A teasing caress of my fingers across the thin cotton panties plays to the visuals of his full lips buried there.