Page 15 of Tender Thorns
The polite knock that comes soon after surprises me, making me think it isn’t Ziv at the door. He doesn’t seem to have the patience for something as mundane as knocking. I think about getting the chair to check who it is, but decide I’ve already taken too long and open it.
Ziv’s head jerks back when he sees me, as if I’ve stunned him, but he recovers quickly, barging into the room so fast that I end up backing up against the wall so he doesn’t bowl me right over.
Once he shuts the door behind him, he reaches out and grabs a thick chunk of my hair. I’m not used to people touching my hair. One, I usually keep it braided back, and two, I try not to let people get that close to me, but Ziv pushes right past my boundaries. I very much doubt gods entertain limitations anyway.
When he takes a step closer to me and brings my hair up to his nose, I feel a riot of things. First and foremost being I probably stink. It’s been days since I bathed. Then, more blatantly, I wonder if he will somehow know I was under the bed. Why else would he be sniffing me?
His unnerving silver eyes lock onto mine, but he makes no attempt to move back or even drop my hair. I almost confess to finding the hiding spot, but I can’t seem to make my mouth work at the moment, especially not when he looks down at my lips as if he knows I’m trying to say something.
“We have a problem, little flower.”
“We do?” I chirp.
“We do,” he replies, but he doesn’t elaborate further, nor does he give me an inch of space. If he loses his shit now, I’m done for. One hit is all it would take.
“How do I fix it?”
“You can’t,” he deadpans and steps back abruptly, leaving cool air to replace the space he occupied. I don’t feel any sense of relief though, because it’s as if his absence only amplifies my unease.
When he turns his back on me, I pull my shoulders off the wall and take a deep breath. Ziv eats up the space in my room with a stride or two and takes a hold of the mattress, pulling it up from the bed frame and setting it on its end. I glance at the floor to see if there’s any evidence of the loose board, but everything seems to be in place. I shift my attention to Ziv and notice he’s trying to put linens on the bed and failing miserably.
“Here, let me,” I offer while moving closer to him. He peers over his shoulder skeptically but releases the fabric. I give him a second to put the mattress back in place or move, but he doesn’t, so I work around him, knowing I’ll have to tuck the material under when the covers are in place.
“I thought you didn’t have a bed.”
“I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never made one.” I smooth the fabric with my palms. “If you put it down, I can finish.”
Ziv drops the pad into place and backs up a step, giving me a little more room. When I can’t see him, it’s easier to talk to him, so I take the opportunity to ask, “Are you going to tell me what the problem is or leave me to ponder when the consequences will come?”
“How do you know there will be consequences?” He sits on the bed once I finish making it, taking up entirely too much space.
“Problems always have repercussions.”
After mulling over my response, he finally says, “I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to tell you.”
“Why not? Maybe I could fix it,” I say, knowing it’s probably not true. I don’t have a lot of experience fixing things, but at least I would know what it was, and it might help me avoid causing more issues.
“Only death would fix this,” he intones, and my stomach drops.
“Cryptic and ominous.” I try to make light of his words, but I’m pretty sure it falls flat, so I get to the point instead. “Let me guess, it’s my death that would resolve the issue?”
Ziv doesn’t deny it. In fact, he doesn’t respond to my question at all. He just continues to sit on the bed, watching me like I’m the one with the answers.
Exhaustion settles on my shoulders. Worrying about death isn’t new to me, but I don’t think it’s something you can get used to or get comfortable with, at least I can’t. However, there is this strange acceptance that happens at some point. I don’t know when it happened to me, but it did, I think I just forget it sometimes. I drop into the desk chair across the room from Ziv and meet his stare. I figure if I’m about to die, I might as well make it worth my while.
There’s a notable shift in his features. It’s not profound, but the slight widening of his eyes and softening of his expression are obvious. “Little flower?” he questions, probably wondering why I have the nerve to meet his gaze.
“Why do you call me that?”
“I thought it was obvious—your name,” he answers.
“Right, but it’s not my name. My name is Briar.”
Ziv shrugs, and I know I’m not going to get any more out of him.
ZIV
The shift in Briar’s demeanor is blatant. One second, she’s cowering against the wall, and the next, she’s staring at me with defiance. I can’t pretend to understand her. We are far too different for that. I grew up without fear, while it seems she has always known it. It colors her every interaction, and I’ve done nothing to ease it, all because I can’t seem to get a handle on my emotions.
