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"I know."
She's heard that exact phrase in multiple occurrences throughout her life.
A plain, mere two words. It's like looking into a mirror at surface level and seeing the skin and flesh of its weight, but falling into the depths of your pupils and witnessing the undoing of your very bones and guts within the plunge to the void of its bottomless meaning.
Once, when she scolded another young girl's far too frivolous dreams in the dirty alleys, hidden from bright cobblestone streets she once occupied.
Twice, she was the one who said it however when the tailor that hired her for an apprenticeship warned her of the little game to be harvested from the fruits of their textile patterned, layered labor.
Thrice, from her commanding captain during her slow and steady descent in endeavors little 14-year old her wouldn't have even dreamt of doing.
And million more times—from her poor parents she ran from, blokes on the streets she detested, police she snarled at, it was a very common phrase.
But in this instance, the woman with the name Martha Behamfil jolted her head to look over, staring daggers at the green hooded man seated against her bedside. If he felt the bed jostle (and he definitely did), he didn't react in any way, shape, or form to indicate it.
Her eyes widened, heart beating against her chest like drums of a percussion line, bile gathering at the back of her throat when she realized just what he meant. What his tone held.
The pressure of conviction isn't something unfamiliar to her.
Her mind was strangled—should she knock him out? Dispose of him? Her gaze flickered to his hand, which was holding—cradling, even—her own hand from the moments ago of when she was sobbing, breaking down, shockingly gentle despite the cruel harshness of two words.
The dryness sucked the soul and life out of her. Her cheeks felt warm, flushed, and wet from the tear streaks that imprinted her faintly freckled face. She knew she was in no condition to immediately act upon her instincts. And he had to have known as well.
Was it a calculated move? Was he waiting for her most vulnerable moment to strike? What should I do?
Compromised, her thoughts blare, distress blanketing her form and wrapping her in a sheen of pale sweat. I've been compromised.
Why was it you? Why did it have to be you?
Mind in a panic, she's unable to act. Instead all she can think of is desperately clinging to the flawless act she's committed to herself to, the person she's desperate to become. Losing her humanity took too much, took too little, all for it to be ripped away from her. The identity; a safety net for herself.
So she answers, as Martha Behamfil. As the woman whose face she wore like a second skin, a name injected into her DNA.
"Know what?"
The quilt she lies on top of scratches at her exposed calves and the too bright hue of the too pristine uniform that's baggy on her too slim form suffocates her. The room feels smaller, radiates a warmth so intense despite the open window.
His silence is palpable. It left overwhelming amounts of room for interpretation, and her head twisted it like morbid balloon animals that warped her perception. It's choking. And she goes to tug her hand out of his, but he tightens his grip and she freezes. Why? He could snap her wrist in an instant, she dreads and the feeling pools in her stomach and settles deep into her being. She won't be able to explain a broken wrist to Dyer or any of the other survivors if they ask her.
But, she watches, as he turns over onto his knees, his eyes meeting hers as he knelt and leaned towards her. A pretty shade of blue swirls in his—an ocean almost, but no, not an ocean. More like a storm brewing up in the clouds; it's dull yet rich, powerful yet mellow. Almost like the color of pebbles washed out by a clear riverside.
She's barely processing through the fear and desperation tearing at her organs, ripping through her conscience when he holds her dangling hand in both of his.
'Can I?'
It's a silent question in his stare and she finds her head bobbing, for reasons even she can't understand, the noise so loud yet never breaking the sound barrier.
The burn of her blood coursing through her veins all rushes down to her hand when she watches as he peeled her leather glove off. The material shimmies down her palm, his fingers pinching the fingertips and his other hand holding her wrist. It was delicate. Like dipping your feet and eventually sinking your body in silky waters.
And for a split second it's more than she can handle. Mind filled with fuzzy cotton, her composure snapped. She goes to tug her hand away, waterline stinging with a familiar pain, lips quivering in a silent plea when she goes to sit up and look at anything that isn't him.
"No," his voice came out in a soothing hush and his grip momentarily tightened in sync to tug her back. "Stay still, hey. Look at me."
She shakes her head, defiant with shut eyes. "Look at me, please."
And she swears her heart jumps to her throat when she feels a soft press on the inside of her exposed wrist.
Naib has soft lips. That was the only coherent thought in her mind as she laid back down on the plush cushion of her bed. The springs squeak under her weight. His eyes latch onto hers again, soft and tender with hiccuping breaths. She was crying again, she realized. How pathetic.
Feathery kisses follow the slide of leather off her hand and he resumes his work. Her skin is raging hot, and so is her face while she observes him press light smooches into her rough palm.
"No need to run away." He hums and the vibrations tingle throughout her body, leaving her motionless as he treats her with a warmth she's been so afraid of indulging in. A warmth that leaves her paralyzed yet wanting for it to engulf and coax her to sleep. "I've got you. I've got you."
She licks her lips and she didn't miss how his molten stare followed the movement. It was all too much—his thumb rubbing into her wrist's pulse, his face resting against her palm, the heavy air that clouded her once clear room.
A year ago she would have been able to ruin him. Take him on instantly, being a threat to his life in this very moment, even if he were a mercenary in the past.
"I regret ever getting to know you," she whispered, voice hoarse. The heartlessness in her voice would have been enough to scare anybody away, but he watches her blankly, borderline amused at the empty threat as he rolls up her sleeve cuff, hands lightly stroking the unmarred alabaster canvas. Challenging her words.
Her head screams at him, soul aching: leave me alone, get away, I don’t want to be near you. He's unaffected when he speaks.
"You're a liar." She is, she thinks mournfully, relaxing into the quilt and her breathing evening out.
Some part of her does regret it. She should have never let him get so close to her. She came to this game, to this manor with a goal branded into her purpose for living. Had she listened, had she never entertained him, she wouldn't be here, limply following his lead to stand up as he slips her blazer off.
Even if it was just cloth, the woman felt lighter somehow as it drifted to the ground in a soft heap. His hands are textured when they brush over her wrists, gloves on the floor as he gently undoes the buttoning of her long skirt. She doesn't object when it falls off, leaving her in her drawers and he lifts her leg by cupping her calf, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee.
It's reverent, she distantly thinks when she lies back down on the bed. This time, he sits on the edge, and she curls into a ball, knees tucking in as he holds her hand once more. They didn't fit like puzzle pieces, the calluses and tough scarred skin of either hand rubbing against each other, but it was their own and somehow that's all that mattered.
"I will tell everyone." "Why are you doing this?" "What do you gain from impersonation?" "You're disgusting."
She expected him to ask those sorts of questions, spew all types of statements, because that's what she was used to. It was what she had grown accustomed to in a world where it was cruel and unforgiving to those who couldn't monopolize whatever they could get their hands on.
She sniffles, feeling her eyes bud with tears again when he lies down beside her. Getting on her level, as she shakily lifts a hand to touch his face tentatively. There's something so agonizingly right about the way he leans his head down slightly to meet the reach of her dainty hand, thumbing the stitches etched into the sides of his mouth. Something so painfully pleasant that swirls in her chest at the familiarity, at the naturalness of it all.
Like how he held her hand on his knees earlier, stroking his stitches was her way of silently asking him something she couldn't manage to say. Why?
Naib Subedar's lips stretch into a smile that has her tears trickling again, her chest swarming with guilt of her deception. It's an ugly feeling. Why? She asks, pain booming yet voice failing her.
But he shushes her, wiping her tears with his hands and his gentle reassurances. Like how he rid her of that wretched clothing, the uniform that restricted her in body and mind, freed her from the shackles of something she didn't know she was held captive in.
Why?
She shifted on the bed, the movement infinitesimal. His hand fell on her waist, encouraging it, and she found her face nearly pressed against his chest, ear syncing to listen to the fast pace of his heart. The hairband holding her ponytail together snapped with one twist of his digits, carding through the soft locks and untangling each and every tight knot of her deepest thoughts and ugliest demons.
"I'll be here if you're ready to tell me everything," he says simply. "You don't owe me any backstory or explanation. Remember that."
It takes a moment to swallow the cry threatening to fight its way out of her throat. His hand smooths over the small of her back, most likely trying to soothe her, but if anything it only garnered more waterworks.
"I know," she whispers back. And his lips meet her forehead, the space between her eyebrows, and her eyelids. It's secure, strange but enticing, to be the object of affection instead of an object to use. It’s weird, but she moves closer anyway.
The nameless girl who fought tooth and nail to survive with the life she had sworn to, found herself surrendering to the security around her. Even if she knew she had to wake up eventually, even if this was nothing, it meant everything to her in this one instance where "I know" unraveled her defenses and undid the bindings on her chest, the uniform she held onto.