Callum slides inside me, and this time there’s no pain. There’s only an oddly satisfying sensation of being filled by him, and a resurrection of that blissful pressure he teased out of me with his fingers. And with his thumb on my clit.

Let’s not forget that thumb.

He moves slowly at first, watching my face to make sure I’m okay. But when I close my eyes and give myself over to the moment, he begins to thrust in earnest, and as his pubic bone provides friction against my clit, that pressure builds faster. Tighter.

I can only cling to him, thrusting up to meet him, chasing this apex of pleasure I’ve never felt. Something I’ve heard about, but I can’t describe, or even picture. Something I know is there.

Callum whispers something in my ear as he lowers himself onto his elbows. Something unintelligible, but…urgent. He wants me to come. He’s waiting for me. Begging me…

“Oh…” I breathe as that spiraling sensation crests, and finally explodes within me in wave after blistering wave. “Callum…”

He groans, and his thrusts grow frantic as he pumps into me over and over, prolonging my orgasm with the intensity of his own.

For a moment, as the sensations fade into a pleasant throbbing, I am aware of nothing but Callum’s warm weight over me. If the hunter finds us now, we’re both as good as dead.

At least I won’t die without ever knowing this was possible.

But in the next second, that thought fades, and I’m angry for having had it. It’s not okay for me to die now. It’s not good enough that I got to spend one night with Callum. That I got to have one orgasm. I want more than that, and Scott Hansen has no right to take that from me, just because I didn’t want to fuck his psycho brother.

“Maci?” Callum lifts himself off of me, and I feel him withdraw. “Hurt?”

“No,” I assure him as I sit up and reach for my shorts. Though the truth is that my back is a little raw from the rough wood beneath us. And I’m kind of sore in the best possible way.

I’m also starving and exhausted, but I’m much less satisfied by those problems.

He says a word I’ve heard from him before, then he closes his eyes and make a snoring sound.

“Sleep,” I tell him.

“Yes.” His deep voice is surprisingly soft, and rather than grouchy, now he looks…pleased. “Maci sleep. Callum…” He makes a gesture like looking through binoculars, to tell me he’ll keep watch.

I should object, but I’m so tired I wouldn’t be very good as a lookout. And even though he’s pleased, now that at least one of our physical needs has been met, I seriously doubt he’d trust me to take watch. So, while he props himself up on his elbows and peers out over the edge of the platform, I close my eyes and try to relax enough to go to sleep.

At first, that doesn’t seem possible, with nothing but the hard wooden platform beneath me. But then exhaustion overwhelms me, and I’m aware of nothing until a hand shakes me awake by my shoulder.

My eyes fly open, but before I can move or make a sound, a hand clamps over my mouth.

Disoriented, I claw at it, kicking as I try to scream, but then weight settles onto my thighs, pinning them down, and a familiar face appears over me. Callum puts one finger in front of his lips, warning me to be quiet.

Seeing him reminds me of where I am and how I got here, and I nod, my hair catching on the rough wood beneath me.

Callum uncovers my mouth and silently lifts himself from my legs, then lies next to me on the platform, still wordlessly shushing me with one finger. Then he points.

I roll over and follow his finger. What I notice immediately is that the sun is brighter and the day is far hotter than it was when I fell asleep. Based on my month in zone four, I know that means it’s past noon. But at first, I can’t see what Callum is pointing at.

Then a clump of underbrush rustles below us, and my focus narrows on the movement.

A second later, one of the robo-dogs emerges from a deeply shaded patch of foliage, and sunlight glints off its pointed ears and narrow muzzle. And two rows of razor-sharp teeth.

I grit my teeth to keep from gasping, and Callum reminds me—again—to be quiet. As if I might forget. He seems wary, but not truly worried, and after a couple of seconds of watching, I understand why.

The dogs are below us, but they don’t seem to know we’re here.

We watch, my heart pounding, as the mechanical mongrels make their way slowly beneath the hunting stand. When they emerge on the other side, Callum silently lifts himself and turns, then lies down facing the opposite direction so he can watch their retreat. I try to imitate his movements, holding my breath, and I’m certain until the moment that I lie down next to him that the wood beneath me will creak and give away our position.

When that doesn’t happen, I exhale silently and return my attention to the robo-dogs.

Before, I was too terrified to process much about them, other than how quickly they could kill me. But now, from the relative safety of our perch, I notice something interesting: their ears move, but more like a cat’s than like a dog’s. As if rather than sniffing out scents, they hunt using their hearing, which, in the case of any machine, is actually just noise detection. Though presumably they’re able to determine the difference between the chirp of a bird—the only animal I’ve heard in the enclosure—and a human voice. Or even the snap of a twig beneath someone’s feet.

As I watch, I realize their ears are still turning, slowly and steadily rotating as they scan the forest for sounds. But the hounds’ ears don’t tilt up, which means they’re effectively blind to anything above them—assuming we don’t actually talk or go out of our way to make noise that would travel down to their level.

And as they disappear into another clump of brush in the distance, I notice a set of bright red flashes, one right on the heels of the other. Right at the tips of their tails.

Antennae. The robo-dogs have antennae for tails, which means they’re either sending or receiving a signal. Probably both. Someone is monitoring what the dogs see and hear. Maybe even controlling them remotely.

For several minutes after they pass out of sight, we remain still and quiet up on our perch. Finally, when he decides we’re in the clear, he leans over and kisses me.

“Mmmm…” I murmur, and that’s evidently the same in his language as it is in mine.

When he pulls away, I point in the direction the dogs went. “Robo-dogs,” I say. “Did you see their tails?” I pant and wag one finger like a tail. “Tail?” I repeat. “Did you see the flash? The red light?”

Callum frowns, so I pick up a leaf that’s fallen onto the platform and show it to him. “Leaf.” He already knows that word, so I add to the concept. “Red.” Then I point at my bra and say “black,” to illustrate that it’s the color of the leaf that’s important.

He frowns. “Breast.” Then he reaches out to run one finger against the peak. “Nipple.” When it draws into a tight point, the outline of his cock swells in his shorts.

“Down boy,” I scold, impressed by his vocabulary retention, if not his grasp of the relevant factors. “That’s not what we’re doing right now.” But obviously he’s going to need some clarity. So, I push my bra up and cup my left boob. “Breast.” I point to the peak. “Nipple.”

He leans forward with his mouth open, and when I push him back, he looks both disappointed and confused. “Callum, nipple.”

Evidently my method of instruction is…misleading.

“Later.” Though maybe not much later… “Breast, nipple.” I point them out as I name them. “Bra.” I snap the material back into place. “Black bra.” I pluck at the waistband of his shorts. “Black shorts.” Then I hold up the leaf. “Red leaf. Red.”

“Red.” He nods, then says the word in his language, and finally we’re in the same place. “Red…robo-dog?”

“Red light. A flash.” I make an exploding gesture with one hand, and when that doesn’t clue him in, I mime a signal coming from the flash, then I undulate my fingers, like waves traveling through the air.

“Yes. Red.” He makes the flashing sign, and I hope that means he actually understands what I’m trying to say. Then he touches his ears and looks at me expectantly.

“Ears,” I tell him, and I can’t help noticing that now that he’s gotten laid, he’s much more enthusiastic about learning my language.

“Ears,” he repeats, then he cups his hands on the top of his head and rotates them like a cat’s ears, while he makes a staticky whispering sound, which is evidently what he thinks data transmission sounds like. Though I’ve never known it to make any noise.

We might not be on exactly the same page, but we both seem to understand that the dogs represent more of a threat than just sharp teeth. And I can’t help wondering, though I lack the ability to express the thought in his language, what I could do with the insides of one of those dogs. If we could kill it—deactivate it?—and take it apart.

When Callum is sure the dogs are far enough away, he climbs down from the stand, then gestures for me to join him. The second my feet hit the dirt, I miss our perch. I don’t feel safe on the ground, but we can’t stay up there forever. We need food and water. And a more solid plan than just “find the wall and hope there’s a gate, even though we don’t know how to open it.”

We take off to the northeast, veering away from the direction the dogs headed in without totally abandoning our quest for the eastern enclosure wall. And the longer we walk, the harder it is to think about anything other than water. Even with the pleasant ache between my legs as a reminder of what happened a few hours ago.

But as hungry and thirsty as I am, Callum must have it worse. He’s been out here longer than I have, and I don’t think he got any sleep.

Twice, I hear a stream gurgling in the distance, but I don’t suggest finding it because the temptation to drink would be too great, and without any purification tablets or anything in which to collect water and dissolve them, the risk of ingesting an intestinal parasite is high.

So, water remains a problem, but food…. Audra, Tyson, and I always had fresh meat in zone four. I don’t think I could replicate any of Ty’s traps without at least some basic supplies, but even if I could make them and we had time to let them catch something…I’m not sure there’s anything for them to catch. I haven’t seen so much as a single glimpse of wildlife, other than a few birds in the canopy. I’ve heard nothing scurry through the underbrush. I’ve seen no telltale signs of dens or boroughs, and no scat.

I try to ask Callum about that, but I’m not sure he understands my truncated questions and makeshift signing, until he points overhead and makes a soft sound imitating a bird’s chirp.

“Yes, birds. That’s all I’ve seen too. But where are the rodents?” Rabbit and squirrel were staples of our diet in zone four.

As near as I can gather from his unfamiliar words and signs, Callum thinks wildlife inside the enclosure, if there ever was any, was decimated, either by hunters as eager to kill rabbits as inmates, or by inmates trying to survive as they ran for their lives.

Either way, the point seems to be that we’re the only prey to speak of in this enclosure. If that’s truly the case, there’s nothing I can do about food or water unless we find one of the cabins or ration stations Steven Hansen mentioned, when we were watching his brother on the window screen. But not only do I have no clue where any of those are, I no longer even have the energy to try to explain to Callum that they exist.

It feels strange walking through the woods in my underwear, with no supplies. Without even so much as an empty backpack that could be rolled up and used as a pillow or held over my head if it rains. I feel aimless and on edge, and the longer I go without food and water, the less focused my understanding of our plan becomes. Which is why, when I spot something solid peeking between the trees ahead, I’m equal parts scared and excited.

It’s a wall, but not made of metal. Which means it’s not the enclosure perimeter, and we still have no idea how far away that might be. But if it’s not the enclosure…

I grab Callum’s hand and point to the right. He sees it instantly and lays one finger over his mouth.

I roll my eyes at him. I know to be quiet, but he doesn’t seem capable of not reminding me. Must be a guy thing.

Callum gives me an open-handed “stay here” signal. Then he heads to the south in a silent jog, without waiting to see whether or not I’ll listen.

I think about it—for all of two seconds. Then I take off after him, pleased, a few steps later, to realize he can’t hear me.

Callum gives the building a wide berth, evidently planning to scout all around it from a bit of a distance, and I catch up with him as he rounds the front corner at a crouch, hidden by thick brush. I tap his shoulder and have to stifle a laugh when he actually jerks, startled. I’ve gotten really good at sneaking.

But the look he turns on me is far from amused. He gesticulates angrily, telling me to back away. He clearly wants to make sure it’s safe before I get any closer, but I’m no safer alone and out of his sight than I am checking out the back of the building with him. So, instead of sulking off to do as I’m told, I raise my middle finger and wave it in his face.

I can tell from his puzzled expression that people don’t flip the bird on his planet, and I’m a little disappointed not to have further pissed him off with the gesture. But with any luck, I’ll have a chance soon to tell him how insulted—or, alternatively, aroused—he should be.

When he realizes he can’t force me to cooperate without making more noise than the victory would be worth, he cautions me again to be quiet, then motions for me to follow him.

The building is small enough—likely only one room—that I’m not sure whether this is a “cabin” or one of the ration stations. It’s simple wood construction on a poured concrete slab, which means it only sits about a hand’s width off the ground. The only window is on the front side, to the right of the only door.

When we round the front of the building again, I stand back while Callum peers through the window. All I can see is that it’s dark inside, and I don’t know whether that means no one’s home, or it’s not wired for electricity. This whole enclosure seems to be a strange mix of modern tech—robo-dogs—and vintage hunting nostalgia, with the wooden building and the tall deer stand.

After a minute or so, Callum gives an all clear signal, then turns to the door. Naturally, there’s no handle or lever. Despite the building’s rustic look, the door has a digital lock panel, completely void of buttons. It can only be opened by electronic signal, which, presumably, is transmitted by the hunter’s wrist com.

But if I learned anything from Tyson, it’s that unlocking is only one way to open a door. For him, the alternative usually involved kicking the door in, which wouldn’t be possible here, even if I had that kind of strength. Fortunately, I think I see another way.

The window in the front wall is actually four small panes set into a steel frame, and each section is much too small for me to fit through. But the window in the top third of the door looks about my size. I mime smashing it to Callum, and he nods. Then he strips off his shorts.

It’s not that I mind the free peep show. Truly I don’t. But I’m not sure how being naked is going to help….

Then he wraps his shorts around his fist, and I understand.

He punches the glass high in one corner, and I expect it to shatter. Instead, it falls into the cabin in one unbroken piece. Callum frowns at me, surprised, and I can only shrug.

He lifts me by my hips, his fingers close enough to my crotch to give me happy flashbacks, and I realize once the opening is staring me in the face that there’s no good way for me to get through it other than to dive headfirst. Which lands me in a heap on the floor.

I get up, rubbing my bruised shoulder, and glance around to make sure the building is truly unoccupied, then I study the door, suddenly afraid that it can’t be opened from either side without that wrist com. But the inside has a deadbolt that can be operated either electronically or manually.

I twist the lever, and the door swings open.

Callum comes inside, now wearing his shorts again, and while he bolts the door, I kneel to pick up the window pane he knocked out. In contrast to the rustic feel of the cabin, it’s actually not glass at all, but some kind of anti-shatter polymer fitted into place with simple silicone calking. Which explains why it came loose in one piece.

They probably didn’t expect any of the inmates to be small enough to fit through the hole, even with the window knocked out.

Callum sets it back into place, to keep anyone from noticing at a glance that something’s wrong. Which is probably a pointless effort. If the hunter gets this close to the cabin, he’s definitely going to want to come inside, whether or not he knows we’re here. And if that happens, we’ll be trapped, because there’s only one exit.

Which means we probably shouldn’t stay here any longer than necessary.

I start to turn on the lights, but Callum’s hand lands over mine on the panel, stopping me. I don’t need an explanation to know that he’s right. We want the cabin to look unoccupied. Fortunately, in what’s left of the mottled daylight shining through the windows, I can see a narrow bed with an actual mattress, which is easily the most exciting thing I’ve seen in nearly two days. Except for Callum’s cock. And his abs. And his biceps. And…

Food. There’s actual food stacked in one corner, in the crate Callum has just ripped open. Food, and several bottles of water.

This is a cabin and a ration station.

We descend upon the crate like starving people, which we practically are, and Callum is gentleman enough to drop several protein cakes in my lap before he rips into one for himself. After days spent on the prison transport, I’d hoped never to see another protein cake, but at this point I would gladly eat a bird raw, if I could make one fall from the sky, and dry rations look great by comparison.

I’ve eaten three of them and downed two bottles of water before I slow down enough to taste anything. Or to realize there’s no bathroom. But there is a rustic sink, of the workshop variety, in one corner. I’m not sure we should drink from it without any purification tablets, but there are several rags and a couple of small towels folded on a shelf on the wall, and that’s good enough for a sponge bath.

I strip down, wishing I had clean clothes to change into, and Callum seems more interested in helping me bathe than in turning around to give me some privacy. Until he notices the bite mark on my left breast, which, I now realize, he has yet to see uncovered by my bra.

Storm clouds roll over his eyes and I shrink away from him for a second, before I realize his anger isn’t directed at me. He says something through clenched teeth, clearly asking about the bite, but I don’t have the words to explain what happened to me in his language.

So, I hand him a wet rag and indicate with gestures that he should clean himself too. Changing the subject, because even if I had the words, I don’t think I’d want to talk about this.

He drops the rag in the sink and gently lifts my breast, then leans down to lay a warm kiss right over the bite mark. Then he turns me by my shoulders and starts running my warm rag over my back.

I start to object…but it feels so good. And now that we’ve eaten, we have nothing better to do and nowhere better to go. So, I stand still while Callum rinses and rewarms the rag, then tilts my head up and slowly wipes grime from my neck, following each caress of the cloth with a trail of soft kisses on my damp skin. He rinses again and lets the rag get pretty hot this time, then he lowers himself onto his knees and starts wiping my left breast with long, steamy caresses that all end at the peak of my nipple.

By the time he moves on to my right breast, I’m breathing heavily, and when I moan in disappointment about the abandoned left side, he pulls me closer and takes my still-damp nipple into his mouth. He sucks gently, then a little firmer as he flicks his tongue over the tip in a rhythm my hips want to mimic by rocking against him.

“Mmm…” His hand slides over my lower back to cradle my backside, and he releases my left breast to clean the right one, ignoring my complaints this time with a devilish smile.

My intention with the rag was to clean myself, but this is starting to feel very, very dirty.

Callum runs the rag over each of my arms, then my stomach, and by the time he gets to my butt, his erection is straining the front of his shorts, demanding attention. And his eyes feel like bright blue coals, burning right through me.

I take the rag from him and insist that he turn while I clean my own lower parts, and I know he’s doing the same when I hear the water running. I drop my rag in the sink, and before it even hits the bottom, he’s swung me up into his arms. I squeal, startled, but I’m laughing by the time he lays me on the bed.

“Maci…” he murmurs as he kisses his way down my neck and over my collarbone. Then he says that word he keeps calling me that isn’t my name, but sounds a bit like a sexy growl rumbling around a couple of consonants. If I ever learn his language, I’m going to ask what that—

I gasp as his mouth closes over my nipple again, and my thoughts splinter like shattered glass. But this time there’s no lingering. He nibbles both peaks, then licks a lavish trail down my stomach, dipping briefly into my navel, then down, down…

“Wait!” I try to clamp my knees closed, and his face gets caught between my thighs. “You don’t have to…”

He growls and tugs my legs apart again, then makes a shushing gesture as his face disappears between the V of my thighs.

The first stroke of his tongue makes me sit up on my elbows, gasping. It’s strange new sensation. Blisteringly intimate, and …

He licks me again, and again, and now there’s a rhythm and I can’t remember why I was objecting. His hand slides up my stomach to my sternum, where he applies gentle pressure, telling me to lie back. Relax.

My head sinks onto the pillow and I close my eyes as a familiar hot pressure begins to build, spiraling tighter with every swirling lick against my clit. He slides two fingers into me, testing gently, and I tense, sore at first. He teases my clit more firmly and begins a careful rhythm with his fingers, and as I grow wetter, the soreness eases.

My hips arch up on their own, seeking more from him, and he groans, then thrusts faster, pressing up inside me with each stroke.

“Oh.” I clutch at the sheets, and he stops licking me long enough to whisper something encouraging and drop a tantalizing kiss on my thigh. Then his tongue finds my clit again in a devastating, demanding rhythm that leaves me panting as wave after wave of sensation crashes over me, leaving me throbbing in the best way.

Somehow, Callum can express himself perfectly without speaking a single word…