FERN

Telling Tex he couldn't have pie was like asking a mountain lion to please go away. He tracked my every move with dark, hooded eyes that heated my flesh. Stalking. I'd let him catch me if he'd only give me a turn, but—while he hadn't flat out refused—he hadn't agreed. "Let's talk about it," he'd said. "Privately."

I knew his tricks. If I let him get me alone without some sort of agreement, I'd never win. I wanted to win. I needed to win. This was the absolute last time I'd ever get the chance. So I'd looked at him, really looked at him, and in the firmest tone I could conjure, I said, "No."

Neither of us had said a word for almost an hour since. We were at a standoff. Circling each other like two predators intent on the kill. Planning our next move, speculating what the other's might be. It was a game I knew how to play, and I'd never wanted to succeed more. If I wanted to eat, I needed to hunt. And I wanted that damn pie.

Plates emptied, bellies filled, and little groups sprouted from the hoard. Men formed circles as cards were dealt. Others talked and laughed, mainly with Sergio, who told more grand stories about the ship. The children formed a little row in front of him, cross-legged on the floor. Croc sat even closer, listening as if expecting a test afterwards.

Then, on the opposite side of the deck, one of the men played a harmonica. Cecil's voice drifted up like smoke between each stream of notes. Wispy and hoarse, yet somehow beautiful in its ugliness. In the shadows just outside the glow of lanterns, a couple swayed to the sound. I watched. Longing. I wanted to do that. I wanted to dance like that with Tex, whisper secrets of my own, but he wasn't budging.

I had no idea how to move the mountain that was Tex. I'd been trying every night since the first. I'd gripped, tugged, begged, pleaded, yanked, groaned, and whimpered. None of it had been enough. Tonight had to be different. He needed a hard shove over the line he'd drawn. So when Sergio's nephew, Dimitri, asked me to dance, I answered before Tex could.

"Sure." I gave him my hand.

Tex gripped my opposite arm before Dimitri could lift me from the deck. "Darlin'." It was a warning, like a dog growling over his food.

I turned to him, let those dark eyes burn me, unflinching. I didn't want a different pie or a new baker. All he needed to do was compromise. Bend. Slacken his hold on the reigns. I leaned over, pressed my lips to his ear, and whispered, "I do what I want." If he didn't want to share, there were other, less–impressive pies on other, less–tempting windowsills.

His grip didn't loosen as he scanned my face, jaw tight, expression dark, plotting his next move. "I don't want you to do that," he murmured.

"So, I can have a turn?" I whispered.

He didn't answer.

"Then we don't always get what we want, do we?" I pulled my arm free and stood.

Dimitri grinned like a cat who just stole honey from a bear, which wasn't a bad comparison. He lifted my arm as he led me to an open space, then spun me once before settling his hands on my waist. He rumbled a stream of Russian as he swayed.

I studied his face, smooth and unblemished. Youthful. I barely had to tilt my head to see it. Nothing like Tex, who dominated whatever space he happened to occupy. His hands, smaller. They reminded me of Jimmy Johnson's hands, and I remembered the conversation I'd had with Tex that day in the woods. A nice boy from a nice family. But, despite his boyish looks, Dimitri didn't give the impression that he was the same kind of sweet Jimmy had been. He said something else in Russian, nodding his head as he spoke.

"I don't understand," I said.

A secret smile twisted his mouth. "I know." He pulled me tighter, slowly circled us in place, and I found myself at the center of a merry-go-round. Sergio's wide, open smile. Men with wary looks. Then Tex, a shadow growing larger in the spot where I'd left him. Sergio again. The men. A lit cigar.

"You should probably be alert," I said, suddenly more worried about the boy than winning. "This wasn't the best idea."

"I am not afraid, djetka." His hands trailed lower.

I gripped his wrists and yanked them back up, giving him a look.

He laughed, spun me again, and I barely had time to gather my bearings before I was intercepted like a football by his brother, Michael.

"Forgive my brother," Michael said as he took the role of Fern spinner. "He is a child." And he had been, compared to Michael. They were identical in every way apart from their age. Like snapshots of the same person taken at different times. Had Sergio looked like this when he was young? They had the same dark hair, the same olive complexion and thick brows. But while Dimitri had been boyishly smooth, Michael's face was shadowed by maturity.

The atmosphere shifted as a violin rose above the harmonica—mournful, beautiful, stealing the right to be heard. Michael turned me in a half circle, revealing its source. Sergio's brother Victor stood, the violin nestled into his shoulder, eyes closed as if in prayer, as he pulled the bow across the strings. Slow. Melodic. Haunting. Michael stopped moving as I stared, transfixed.

"He was a concert violinist, very famous in Russia. That is how he managed to escape," he murmured.

"Escape?" I looked up at him.

He was already looking at me. "Russia was one of the first countries to start the initiative, and it happened very quickly." The words were quiet, as if it would be a crime to disturb the music.

Sergio began to sing, his voice deep, each note long, each word stretched out so I had to listen hard to even understand what he was saying. But I didn't need to make out the words to understand the message. It sounded like goodbye. Like every goodbye I'd never got to say and all the ones to come. It was a cry for remembrance, of not only the people gone but the people set to leave.

"Do you know it?" Michael whispered.

I shook my head, unable to look away from Victor's hands as one worked the strings and his other maneuvered the bow. Long notes and falsettos. Crying out. The sound echoed from inside him. He was the bow, the same as me when I took aim.

"It is Dido's Lament." His voice drew closer, so close I could feel his breath against my ear. "It is usually sung by a woman. Do you sing?"

"May I?" Merle pulled me away without waiting for an answer. He walked me to the side of the ship, away from everyone, including Tex. "Let's not get the ship blown up, huh? Sound good?"

I looked back to find Michael grinning at Tex, who was pacing now, puffing the cigar, casting glances in our direction like a tiger in a cage. Was he ready to give up? If he had been, he wouldn't have sent Merle to get me. I wouldn't be way over here. He wouldn't be way over there. "Is he okay?" He didn't look okay. He looked like the dynamite, the cigar his fuse, and at the rate he was going, it wouldn't last long.

Merle snorted. "Is that a fucking joke? The boy is pissed. But he's smart enough to know not to start any shit." He paused, his expression the same one Daddy used to get. Scolding. Warning. "To a point. Let's not test it."

"Why didn't he just get me himself?" I asked. Was it really so terrible? Why wouldn't he give in? Why didn't he want me the same way I wanted him?

"Because, sometimes, occasionally, the boy isn't a complete idiot." He leaned against the rail. "You're baiting him into a fight. He's not biting. Good for him."

Good for him? Well, what was good for him was not necessarily good for me. We were all about to be killed, and he still wanted to keep his precious barrier. Then. . .what? He wanted to keep me all to himself, perched on some shelf like a doll too fragile to be played with. He didn't get to do that. What I did was my business. I started back where I'd been. If he was going to be a stubborn mule, then I was going to dance.

Merle muttered a curse but didn't try to stop me. He didn't need to.

Tex tossed the cigar and pivoted, and the way he moved toward me made all the hair on my arms stand on end. Storm clouds surrounded him. It was the Tex that burned Reggie. The Tex that led men to slaughter. The Tex that would snap and do God knows what at any given second, already snapped, already doing the God knows what.

He closed the space between us in long, angry strides and scooped me up like a misbehaving puppy caught peeing on the carpet.

I gasped as he turned back toward the bedroom. No explanation. No apology. Just heaving breaths that shifted his shoulders, and wild, glassy eyes fixed forward. I had him backed into a ravine, sighted for the kill. I was winning, but if I knew nothing else, it was how something would lash out once trapped.

Tex wrenched the door open, then kicked it shut behind him with a force that shook the frame. "My goddamn pie," he growled as he dropped me to the mattress and turned to light the lantern.

I opened my mouth, but no words emerged. There weren't any. He'd shaken them from me, stealing my biggest weapon against him. The glow deepened his shadows, and he towered beside the bed, still as stone and twice as silent, glaring.

He yanked his jacket off and flung it to the floor. "I don't like that game, Darlin'." His shirt came next, jerked up and over his head with a force that should have ripped it. It dropped onto his boots, and he stared at it, shoulders heaving, jawbone flexing. "Goddamn it, you know how to get under my skin." He gripped the back of his neck and squeezed. "You just keep pushing."

I held my breath, lungs burning as the seconds stretched. His presence ate up all the space in the room, barely leaving any for me.

"Imagine the last patch of berries on Earth," he finally spoke, words quieter. "The last ones that will ever be, and if you take them, that's it. They're gone. And the world will be so much fucking less without them. And your hands—" He lifted his, inspecting his palms. "They're covered in a lifetime's worth of sin. How could you pick them with hands like that? Ruin them?" He shook his head and met my gaze. "That's why I can't, Darlin'. You're the last berry on Earth. I'll bury myself beneath you if it means you'll keep growing."

Just like that, it all made sense, and the hurt I'd felt about his rejection melted away, replaced by a different kind of pain. A longing ache. A need so strong I was sure I'd die if it wasn't met. "If you don't pick the berries, they'll just rot without ever having been held." I sucked in a shuddering breath, then quietly added, "Unless someone else picks them."

His nostrils flared. He wrenched open the button on his jeans then climbed onto the bed, forcing me backward as he straddled my legs. "Is this what you want?" His tone was dark, voice rough. He took my wrist and guided my hand beneath his waistband.