Free UNBREATHABLE by Hafsah Laziaf Page B

boots, which reach up to my knees.
    There’s a hood and an extra ring of fabric around my neck, lined in even smaller scales, making it more flexible. It stretches when I pull it up.
    It's a mask. It covers my mouth and my nose, ending beneath my eyes. To protect me from dust. I pull on the supple gloves and spread my arms, marveling at my armor.
    “But I'm not a warrior,” I whisper.
    “You are mine,” he says softly. He looks me up and down and hands me a belt. It’s slotted with small knives, each one an inch apart. I strap it around my waist, but it's too big, made for a man like him, so it hangs lopsided around me.
    I take a deep breath and look up at him when I’m done. He smiles warily. “Are you ready?”
    “Never been more,” I say. And I mean it. Because for once, I am. The familiar quaking of fear isn’t there anymore.
    The halls are lit only by the soft glow of the waning solar bulbs. We run, our footsteps light on the smooth floor. Him and me, father and daughter. Something shifts in my chest when I think of us that way.
    Father and daughter.
    He touches my wrist when we pause at the corner. I’m envious of his calmness. His every glance is calculated, measured. This is what a soldier is—a trained protector.
    Gage taught me differently, that soldiers are dangerous, ruthless, heartless creatures with shells of bodies and zero souls. And yes, they can be that. But not to the ones they protect and love.
    “Don't get distracted,” Slate says. But he stops too. His eyes are soft in the dim light. Why couldn't I have had gray eyes like his? “What is it?”
    “You love me,” I say, as if the notion is impossible. My chest tightens.
    He exhales and cradles my cheek with the palm of his hand, calloused and warm. “Of course I do. I've been loving you for seventeen years as my dead child. Why stop when you're alive?”
    Footsteps sound down the end of the hall. He drops his hand to the shock gun at his waist and edges silently toward the sound. I hold my breath and follow.
    The light brightens. There’s a flash of white hair. A blur of dark. A thud.
    And I bite back a gasp when a body falls to the ground.
    “'Bout time, Slate,” Dena drawls, wiping a wicked blade across the dead Jute. A machete. Dena carries an actual machete . It makes my dagger look like child’s play. She assesses my outfit with a watchful eye and smirks.
    He clears his throat and she raises an eyebrow at him. “Babysitting's over. You're needed elsewhere. I'll make sure your burden of love - or is that bundle of love? - doesn't get hurt.”
    “I don't need your protection,” I say.
    “If she gets hurt—” Slate starts. Dena rolls her eyes, cutting him off.
    “Yeah, yeah. Here's the thing: she won't,” she says. Her back stiffens and in that instant, she’s a completely different person. She scans the area around us before fixing her dark gaze impatiently on Slate again. “Bye?”
    He turns to leave and turns back, remembering something. Me. He tucks the hair that came loose from my messy braid behind my ear.
    “Be careful,” he breathes. “I can't lose you again.” I part my lips. But before I can say a word, he pulls me close and presses his masked face to my forehead. And when I think of Father, I no longer see those wise brown eyes, so much like mine, I see gray, pale gray so unusual only one person can have them.
    My arms are clenched as I lift them, and slowly, slowly wrap them around him. When one fist touches the other, I am complete. Inside, a gaping black hole is filled. Tears burn at the edge of my vision.
    “I love you, Lissa.” He pulls back. Gage never said those words to me.
    I need Slate. I need to see his smile, hear his voice. I need him to be there for me the way Gage never was. My reply is there, on the edge of my lips.
    “I love you too,” I whisper, hesitant and soft. But it’s too late, he’s already gone.
    Dena snorts after a moment. “So much for being able to protect yourself. Stop