Aftertime

out and it’s chaos in there. You’ve got to let us out, let me get help.”

“What happened?” the guard at the narrow window demanded. She pushed a pair of thick-lensed glasses up on her nose.

“A reckoning,” Cass said. “It went all wrong. This child was hurt, and-”

“She doesn’t look hurt.” The other guard, a leathery-faced woman wearing a thin lavender blouse with heavy black boots, hesitated with her hand on her holstered gun.

“A Beater got her. They shot it like four times. It went down but I think it bit her first. I need to get her some help, in the Box.”

The guards exchanged a glance. The one wearing glasses backed away from Cass.

“What makes you think she’s bit?” the other one demanded. “Is the skin broken?”

“You want to take that chance?” Cass demanded. “I saw it myself-it had its mouth on her. Listen to me, there’s Beaters running around loose in there, you really want to stand around here chatting?”

No one said anything for a moment and Cass held her breath.

If they were true believers-if they shared Mother Cora’s faith-they would never let Cass go. They’d just send Ruthie back to be prayed better. There was no reason for them to believe Cass, a stranger, not even a full-fledged member of the order.

The first guard backed up even farther. “Keep her away from me,” she muttered.

“Just let us leave,” Cass said, edging toward the door. “I’m going now. You can come with me if you want. You might want to think about what’s going to happen if things get worse in there. Across the street, they can still lock that shit out.”

She put her weight against the heavy latch, pushing it open, half expecting one of the guards to stop her. Ruthie’s body was sweaty and hot against her, but she clung tenaciously. The door opened onto a brilliant morning. Cass staggered out onto the sidewalk and stood blinking in the sun. Seconds later she heard the sound of the door being bolted shut behind her.

“Cass!”

A man broke away from a small group of people gathered across the street and raced toward her.

Smoke.

He ran as though he didn’t intend to stop, as though his life depended on it, depended on her-and then he stopped short, seeing that she held Ruthie in her arms. His hands hung useless at his sides. He looked from Cass to Ruthie and back again, eyes wide, breathing hard.

Ruthie clung tight; she still hadn’t made a single sound. She pressed her tear-streaked face against Cass’s neck, and though Cass had barely any feeling left in her arms, and her back burned from the strain, she gripped her precious child even tighter.

“This is my daughter. Ruthie.”

“Ruthie,” Smoke repeated, and her daughter’s name on his lips was, to Cass’s surprise, a sound she had always wanted to hear.

Hearing Smoke say her name, Ruthie twisted in Cass’s arms and peeked out at him curiously, then leaned her head on Cass’s chest and kept on looking at him, long-lashed eyes wide.

“She’s…”

“Bald. I know,” Cass said. “It’ll grow back. They did it to all the kids, symbolized being scoured clean or something.”

“I was going to say ‘beautiful.’ Those eyes…they’re yours.”

Cass shook her head. “That’s just from being an outlier. The pigment doesn’t fade, even after you recover.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. They’re-” Smoke traced a shape in the air, a gently-tilted oval “-big, and turned up at the corners, just like yours. And she has your nose, your chin. Beautiful, like I said.”

“Oh.” Cass felt warmth creep up the back of her neck.

“What the hell is going on in there? It sounds like they’ve started a war-we were about to come in after you.”

“It’s…”

Moments from the past few days flashed through Cass’s mind like pictures in the View-Master her daddy gave her when she was a little girl.

Her first glimpse of the field, greener than any real lawn ever was.

Mother Cora, arms lifted in prayer.

Monica’s wrecked and bleeding mouth.

The girls, shaved and frightened, walking down the aisle like flower girls at a wedding.

The Beater screaming in excitement when Hannah fell into the cage.

Cass shook her head, unable to speak, her whole body starting to shake.

“Let me take her,” Smoke said, and when he held out his arms, sun-gilded and strong, Ruthie regarded him for only a moment before she offered him one perfect small hand and allowed him to fold it in his own.

He lifted her gently and tucked her in the crook of one arm, and she reached for his face and touched it with her fingers. Ruthie was dirty and bald and her dress was torn and one of her shoes was missing and she was the most beautiful thing Cass had ever seen.

Cass’s entire body ached, but when Smoke circled his free arm around her and drew her close, she went without hesitation, she breathed in the smell of him, salt and soap and worry, and when his lips found hers she kissed him thirstily. She kissed him as though he was sustenance, as though he was life itself.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered against his mouth, but he held her tighter and she pressed herself against him and kissed him again, deeper, harder, hungrier. Her body was exhausted and spent, but somewhere inside, the tiny part that refused to give up woke to his touch.

She had Ruthie. She had Smoke.

It was enough.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The existence of this book is a testament to the tenacity and vision of two people: my agent, Barbara Poelle, who only accepts “no” when it suits her-and my editor Adam Wilson, who gets it and then some. In the moments when the story shines, it’s because of them.

Thanks, too, to the entire Harlequin team, who made me feel welcome from day one.

Sophie Littlefield

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