“I can’t skin or cook this in here.” Tyson holds up his rabbit. “And that’s all I have to offer for dinner, at the moment. I’m going to have to go out again.” He holds up one hand when I start to protest. To remind him that I have a couple of protein bricks. “You’re coming with me.”

Maci makes a terrified sound deep in her throat.

He frowns. “Does she ever talk?”

“Not much,” I admit as I scoop my hidden cache of supplies from the top of the dresser into my backpack, then swing it over one shoulder.

“Okay. Well, you can’t stay cooped up in here all the time anyway, so let’s go roast some dinner.” He holds the rabbit up again.

“Is it safe?” I ask when he reaches for the door knob.

“Nothing here is safe for you. But that’s no reason to starve to death.” He slides the door open and gestures for us to proceed him into the hall.

“Try not to look scared,” I whisper to Maci as I hand her the other backpack and lead her out of the room. But she won’t let go of my arm, and I can’t really blame her. I mean, it’s not like there are a hundred men in Settlement A waiting for a chance to bash Tyson’s brains in and rip our clothes off.

Oh, wait. That’s right.

My stomach growls, and when Tyson’s hand lands on my lower back, pushing me to walk faster, I realize he’s heard it. He’s determined to fulfill his part of this bargain.

Or maybe he’s just hungry.

He leads us down the stairs and out the rear door of the building, into a thick cluster of trees a few hundred feet away. I try not to stare as we walk through the woods, but I’ve never seen this many trees in one place. I’ve never seen any trees that weren’t planted and tended carefully, to overcome an environment suitable for growing hardy forms of bean- and seed-based protein, but hostile to most large flora.

Twigs snap beneath our shoes. Dead leaves crunch. Something scurries away from us through the underbrush, and I realize there’s plenty of game out here, for anyone who knows how to catch it. Though I’ve seen no sign that anyone other than Tyson knows how.

So maybe he’s not friendly in the traditional sense, or much of a conversationalist. But he can feed and protect us. I still think I chose wisely. Even if that means sleeping with someone who doesn’t actually give a shit about me, beyond the warm, soft place he can bury his dick.

Within minutes of entering the woods, Tyson leads us to a small clearing, in the center of which lies a compact, stone-lined fire pit that obviously sees frequent use.

Maci and I gather twigs to use as kindling while he skins the rabbit—a chore as fascinating as it is disgusting—then we watch while he uses two forked branches and a well-worn stick to set the rabbit up over the fire.

The sun goes down while he’s cooking, and cold descends on us hard and fast. I’m shivering by the time the rabbit begins to sizzle. Maci moves closer to me, and I put one arm around her while we huddle close to the fire.

When the rabbit is done, Tyson takes one look at our chattering chins and leads us back to the building, our dinner still spitted on its stick.

Our room is dark, with the sun down, so he sets his flashlight in the center of the floor, and we gather around it as if it’s another fire pit, even though it puts out no heat. Tyson breaks off one of the rabbit’s largest legs and holds it out to Maci.

She reaches for it, but he pulls it back.

My temper flares. He said he wouldn’t touch her, but he never mentioned that he wouldn’t feed her either. Did my time in his bed not cover two meals?

But before I can decide whether to start yelling or stripping, his gaze lands on her, and it’s neither cruel nor demanding. “Say please,” he says, holding the rabbit leg out again, as fragrant juice rolls down his fingers.

“Please,” Maci says, and he hands her the food. “Thank you,” she adds, and though his inscrutable expression doesn’t change when he nods in acknowledgement, I get the distinct impression that he’s pleased. The only thing he seems to want from her is communication.

Tyson hands me the other rabbit leg without demanding any manners. He isn’t doing me a favor by feeding me. I’ve damn well earned food.

“Oh my god,” I moan around my first bite, in spite of my determination to remain aloof and businesslike about our transactions.

Tyson actually smiles.

There isn’t much game on my home moon, and fresh meat costs a fortune at the market. My parents rarely bothered with it, considering that we lived on a protein farm, growing the main ingredient of the tasteless paste that the protein bricks in my backpack are made of.

I have to admit that even unseasoned, this rabbit is the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time. But I can’t help wondering what it will cost me. How long will I have to spend on my back for every meal I eat? Will fresh game cost more than packaged food from the supply drop?

I take the second helping Tyson offers me, and I make sure that Maci gets one too. I’m paying for this. We’re damn well going to eat it.

Only when he drops the stripped carcass out the window do I realize that Tyson didn’t take a single bite for himself.

I consider offering him one of my protein cakes. But he’s a big guy, and it’s now his job to feed us. It won’t hurt him to miss a meal.

By the time we’ve finished eating, Maci and I are freezing. I empty both of our backpacks on the floor, hoping Wendy has left us a blanket or some warmer clothing, but we each have only an extra pair of worn-thin pants, a worn out pair of shoes that are too big for either of us, a couple of protein bricks, and a single sock, worn through in both the toes and the heel.

“Wendy’s a bitch,” I mutter as I stuff everything we own into one of the bags. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Tyson to take me “shopping,” and I’ll need the other bag to hold whatever we score.

Maci yawns from her spot on the floor. When she closes her mouth, her teeth begin to chatter. The only blanket we have is the one that came with the bed in this room. I’m willing to share that with her, but there isn’t room for both of us in the tub, and I don’t think Tyson would even fit it in by himself. And there’s no way all three of us will fit on the bed, even if I were willing to let him get that close to Maci.

I don’t trust him well enough yet to be sure that he’ll keep his promise not to touch her.

Tyson sees me staring at the bed. He presses his knife into my palm again, then heads for the door without a word. Standing in the threshold of our room, I watch him shove open a door halfway down the dark hallway. A male voice shouts in protest. “You can hand it over, or I can take it,” Tyson’s voice booms.

A second later, he comes out of the room with a blanket and pillow. I expect him to bring them to me. Instead, he studies the remaining closed doors. He seems to be listening. Then he chooses another one. This time he comes out with another pillow and blanket, and if the man inside protested at all, I couldn’t hear it.

He probably heard what happened across the hall and decided not to make trouble for a man who could pound his face into a pulp as easily as he could take his next breath.

Tyson brings our new supplies back and drops both pillows on the bed. Then he grabs the flashlight and heads into the bathroom with both blankets, and I watch through the doorway while he folds one of them into a rectangle and lays it in the bottom of the tub. He puts Maci’s pillow at the top of the makeshift pallet, then motions for her to get comfortable.

“Thank you.” She curls up on the blanket, and he doubles over the second one, then he covers her with it.

Our giant, brutal guardian has just tucked her into bed like a child. I want to be amazed by that. I want to be comforted and grateful. But then my gaze falls to the bed I’ll evidently be sharing with him, and even the addition of the two new pillows can’t make that okay.

I’m going to have to learn to be okay with things not being okay. I’m going to have to learn to be happy for every dawn I see and every meal I eat, and if it costs me, it costs me.

That’s the way life is here. Wendy has shown me that in no uncertain terms.

Zone four is what Neverland would be if the lost boys were all violent criminals and Wendy were a psychotic pimp.

“Audra.” Maci waves me into the bathroom before the door can close between us. I sink onto the edge of the tub, and she sits up. Her gaze finds Tyson through the doorway into the bedroom, where he’s turned away from us, blocking most of the light from the flashlight. She looks sad. She looks…guilty. “Does it…hurt?”

All at once, I realize what she’s thinking. That eventually, she’ll have to pay too. That she should pay. She may be young and painfully innocent, but she isn’t stupid. She knows that nothing on Rhodon is free.

“He isn’t going to touch you,” I whisper, and though I haven’t spelled it out, my words are a promise to her.

She nods in acknowledgement, her eyes wide and worried. “But he touches you. Are you…okay? Is it terrible?”

“I’m fine. It isn’t terrible. In fact, it was pretty close to not bad.” I’m not sure why I hesitate to admit that to her. If she thinks I’m suffering, she’ll feel guilty for remaining untouched, so I should tell her the truth—that I actually wanted a little more than I got.

But as badly as I want to enjoy it, to make the price easier to pay, there’s a large, vocal part of me that believes I shouldn’t enjoy trading sex for survival. That liking it would be a betrayal of my own self-respect.

“Get some sleep,” I tell Maci. I close the bathroom door on my way into the bedroom, where I straighten the thin, used top sheet and spread the rumpled blanket on top of it, trying not to wonder how many people have slept here since they were washed. If they’ve ever been washed. Then I climb onto the small bed and curl up facing the wall.

If he wants more sex today, he’s going to have to ask for it.

Or he could just take it.

I’m not sure which of those is going to happen when the flashlight clicks off and I feel the mattress sink beneath his weight. The bed is small enough that his body brushes mine, but I can’t tell what part of him my spine is touching, and I’m not about to roll over and find out. I lie there with my eyes squeezed shut, waiting to feel his hands on me. Waiting for him to roll me over and climb on top of me. Or to push my pants down and take me from behind.

Maybe he’ll ask what I like again, and maybe this time I’ll take a stab at answering. My ex—the only one I’ve ever had—didn’t seem to care whether I enjoyed sex, and I slept with him voluntarily. If Tyson’s willing to try to make it good for both of us, I should have no objection. I have to sleep with him, but I don’t have to hate it.

Right?

I don’t realize that he’s fallen asleep until I hear his soft snoring, and instead of being relieved, I’m oddly disappointed. Then I fall asleep next to him, and I don’t wake up until the rising sun shines in my face the next morning.