In New York, you ride the subway to get anywhere in the city. Taxis and Ubers are expensive emergencies and a luxury a broke college student like me can't afford. Depending on the age of the subway car, the rusted wheels grating against the rusted tracks can be anywhere from mildly annoying to migraine inducing as it echoes endlessly throughout the tunnel.

My head is currently a rusted subway car, screeching so loudly I couldn't hold onto a coherent thought if my life depended on it.

I close my eyes to blink away the tears, but the second I do, I see her. Standing over me. Soaked in blood and staring down with disgust and hatred. I open my eyes, but night has fallen and darkness is everywhere.

I spin around in circles, seeing her behind a house or a tree or the gazebo. She's everywhere, and I don't know where I can run to get away from the memory of what happened. I don't know where I am. I collapse in the grass and wrap my arms around my head.

"Did he hurt you?"

I gasp and turn to see who is speaking, finding Eddard, Fenrir, and Pumba trotting towards me in the moonlight. "What?"

Eddard gallops over to my side and lowers into a threatening stance, his hair bristling and rising as he emits a deep warning growl. "You weep. Are you injured? Did he hurt you?"

I choke out a laugh because I can't help it. "No, I'm not hurt."

"Why do you weep?"

"He told me. . ." Eddard waits for me to calm down and finish, and for a moment, I'm not sure I can. "He told me he loves me."

"You're upset . . . because your mate told you he loves you? I'm afraid I do not understand."

"He's lying," I whisper, not bothering to wipe away the new tears.

"And what makes you say that?"

An ache in my chest blossoms into something so painful it's difficult to tell what specifically hurts more. "Because nobody loves me."

With an affronted oink, Pumba climbs into my lap and presses his snout against my stomach. "I love you, mama."

Fenrir props himself up on my leg and licks my arm. "Me too."

"I am protecting you because you are important," Eddard huffs lowly. "Jane does not instruct me to protect those she does not care about."

I don't understand why I was never enough. I never did anything wrong. I was a goodie-goodie child who was too paranoid of my parents wrath to cause anyone trouble. I've spent my life apologizing for existing by trying to be the nicest, or the smartest, or the funniest in any given situation because simply existing isn't enough. My parents both made that abundantly clear.

Your parents are supposed to protect you. They're supposed to love you when no one else will. I'm shaking so much my teeth chatter. Why didn't they love me?

No amount of laughter will release the tension in my throat. I want my grandmother to comfort me. I want someone to comfort me because I feel like I'm seconds from splitting open from loneliness.

I'm suddenly engulfed in rough fur as Eddard leans forward and rests his massive head on my shoulder. I reach up, wrap my arms around him, and wait for the flashes to start. I wait for the panic to rise up inside me like a sweltering sickness. Instead, I feel the comfort I was longing for, but this only makes me cry harder.

I once read in a medical journal that humans need an average of 4 hugs a day for survival, 8 hugs a day for maintenance, and 12 hugs a day for growth. Technically, I should have been long dead.

I've denied myself physical touch my entire life, but now I'm receiving three hugs at the same time, and that has to count for something.

Minutes go by as I stand in front of Ben's front door with my hand raised and ready to knock. I decide to just let myself in.

"You're back?" It's been an hour, or two, or three—or maybe it's only been fifteen minutes—and Ben hasn't moved from his seat on the couch. He looks genuinely surprised and sits up straight, but he doesn't stand as I enter.

I should have thought harder about how I would start this. I'm worried I'll be too mean. Or not mean enough. I'm worried I'm only going to make this worse.

"Okay." I take a steading breath and force myself to start talking. "I ruined your life. You looked up to me when you were young, and I messed up. I ruined your life just like my parents ruined mine. So I'm going to give you something they never gave me." My legs are moving all on their own as I cross the room and take a seat next to him. "A chance to talk."

Ben stands abruptly. "I would really rather we didn't," he cuts in, avoiding my eyes on his way to the kitchen. "What is there to talk about? I misread the situation."

"But—" I don't know if this would be easier or not if he'd give me his full attention, so I say it to his retreating back. "I'm trying to explain that you didn't."

"Didn't," he echoes, and I can't tell if he's mocking me or not, "didn't what?"

"Didn't misread the situation." I don't know what to do when he turns to fix me with his brows furrowed in extreme confusion. The sight of him so perplexed makes me swallow all of the inappropriate laughter fighting to free itself. "I came back because. . . I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" I can't tell if he's angry or just processing what I've said. "You're not the one who made a complete fool of themself."

"Ben, this isn't about you."

"Right. Right, apologies—"

"No," I clarify. "That's not what I mean. What I mean is. . . my reaction earlier wasn't about you. It's. . ." I try to think of the easiest way to explain, but I end up giving up with a sigh.

"Maybe," Ben offers, "if you talk through what you were thinking I can better understand what happened."

"I was. . . very surprised."

"Oh." Ben presses his lips tightly together while he thinks of a response. "I thought I've been rather forward since your rebirth."

"So you have been flirting with me this whole time?"

"Evidently not very effectively, or you wouldn't have to ask."

I raise a hand to point at him, ball my fists, and fold my hands in my lap instead. "Why did you say Gail told you to flirt with me?"

"Because she did," he says matter of factly. "But that doesn't mean I needed her orders to do so of my own volition. To be honest," he adds, his eyes shifting down and away, "I was under the impression you were returning my advances."

"When?"

"The wedding," he answers sheepishly. "I know you don't remember, but a lot was said to lead me to believe this was mutual."

I unclench my fists and rub both hands over my eyes.

"As unfortunate the circumstance in which they were expressed," he murmurs, "my sentiments were still genuine. Even if yours were not."

"Stop saying that," I respond a little too sharply. "You don't love me because you don't know me. You can't love someone you know nothing about."

"No," he refutes, "I love you more than anything. I've dedicated—"

"I don't want you to worship me," I interrupt loud enough for him to immediately fall silent. "Do you have any idea how uncomfortable that makes me feel?"

"I—" His eyes are cloudy with fear and desperation. "Then what do you want?"

"Ben, listen to me." He's still standing in the kitchen, sullen and embarrassed, so I turn completely in my seat on the couch to face him. "I need you to listen to me. You are in a cult. You're in a cult, and that's entirely my fault, and I am so, so sorry. But what this is—" I motion between us. "—isn't love. It's a lot of things, but it isn't. . . look, I'm not an expert, but I do know this isn't healthy."

I watch as he silently thinks through a million responses before settling for, "You said it's impossible for me to love you because I don't know you, but that's not true. I know a lot about you."

He's not listening. He's not understanding. "Oh, you do, huh? Okay, what's my favorite color?"

"Green."

"What's my middle name?"

"June."

I nod my head as if I'm impressed. "Do you know on which of my birthdays I tried to kill my father?"

Ben's confusion is brief and muted—nothing more than a few confused flutters of his eyelashes and a twitch of his brow.

"Do you know why the first alcoholic drink I ever had in my entire life was at our wedding?" I reach down and gather my skirts, pooling them up around me to show him the long blotted scar just above my knee. "Do you know how I got this? Because these are all fundamentally important to who I am, so I'd think someone who claims to know me would be able to answer." Fueled by his silence, I continue. "Ben, you don't know me anymore than I know you."

I've barely finished speaking before he asks, "What do you want to know?"

I sigh with frustration.

"Ask me anything," he continues.

"What makes you think I even want to know you? You've been lying to me since the moment I landed on this stupid island!"

"Then tell me about yourself." Ben takes a few steps towards me. "I want to know you."

"What do you want to know, exactly? I ruined your life, right? That's what you said. I ruined your life. Well, guess what? It seems to be a talent of mine, because I ruined my parent's lives, too."

"Yeah," he says solemnly, and I realize he must be thinking about his mother. "I know what that's like."

All these years of secrecy. All these years of bottling up the worst moment of my life. I'm tired of holding this misery inside of me.

"Your dad was an asshole, but at least your parents wanted you." Despite having never told another living soul before, I find myself blurting out, "I was a mistake. My parents got married because of me, and then they spent the entirety of my life making it clear I wasn't wanted. At first it was in little ways, little blink-and-you'll-miss-it ways. Like a restrained sneer or pretending like they didn't hear me. But it was night and day how they treated my siblings. And don't even get me started on my brother. My parents practically worshiped the ground he walked on for no other reason than he was a boy."

The anxious shivering returns, so I clench my fists and take a steading breath as every ugly memory resurfaces, crawling up from the dark places I shoved them in long ago.

I'm 6, watching my father torture my mother over her post-baby weight after my sisters were born.

I'm 10, and my drunken father has just thrown away my birthday cake in front of my embarrassed friends because he says I don't need to get any fatter than I already am.

I'm 12, coming home from school everyday, eating anything and everything my grandmother puts in front of me because it feels good to eat and she's the only person who has ever shown me kindness. I want her to love me because I love her and she loves cooking.

I'm 16, and I can't buy the same matching skirt all my friends are buying because the store doesn't have my size.

I'm 18, newly free from my father's poison, and I'm sitting in my dorm room mourning my grandmother by eating far past the moment my stomach alerts me I'm full—stuffing my face with pastries and pastas and slices of pizza from down the street and bagels from the corner bakery and whatever else I can get my hands on to help dull the pain of homesickness.

I'm 19, struggling to pull myself out of bed in the morning. Struggling to force myself to walk around the city more. Struggling to rid myself of the shame my parents have caused me.

I'm 20, unhappy despite the health progress I've made. Nothing will ever impress me at this point. I'm too far gone. Nothing I could ever do will be enough to love myself. Nobody will ever want me because my own parents don't even want me.

I thought leaving the house would free me, but I'm not even in the same dimension as my father, and I'm still not free from him.

"So, it's 2am, right? And I'm—" There's nothing threatening about Ben's movements as he slowly takes a seat beside me, far enough away that we're not touching. He nods for me to continue, and I cannot stop myself from saying, "My mom just. . . disappears all day and I have no idea where she went, or if she's okay, or when she plans on returning. If she plans on returning at all. And now it's 2 in the morning, and I'm just so tired."

I shared a room with my siblings, and even though they were all fast asleep, I was wide awake, playing the role of the concerned parent waiting up for their child to return home.

"The second I heard someone come through the front door, I ran out to check on her, and she's just standing in the entryway." Long gashes slash up and down her jeans and shirt, shredded fabric stained with clotted blood. Almost the entirety of her forehead is missing. Just gone. Blood is everywhere. I can smell it from here. "She was hurt. Badly hurt. But my father looked completely fine. And I just remember thinking it's happened. It's finally happened. He's going to finish killing her, and then he's going to kill us. So I took my siblings and locked them in the bathroom. And then I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife." I'm not cold, but I cannot stop shaking. "I don't remember everything that happened, it all happened so fast. I stabbed him. I must have, with the amount of times I tried to. But he pushed me, and I fell on the knife and cut my leg, and he ran. When I went to check on my mom, I realized she wasn't dead. She was blackout drunk."

I try to take her bloodied face in my hands, but she lashes out and smacks me hard on the nose. My sweet, loving, gentle mother has been soiled with alcohol, and it's turned her into a monster. A horrible, truthful monster.

"She told me she hated me," I whisper, as if this will lessen the blow. "She said she couldn't stand the sight of me. My mother was one of the most religious people I knew, and I was such a source of shame for her. She said—" I trail off, hearing her voice echoing in my memory. "She told me she wished she had disposed of me when she had the chance." I look up at him. "I didn't know what to do, so I cleaned her wounds until she fell unconscious. And I just watched her breathing. All night long. I couldn't stop watching her breathing because I was afraid if I looked away—if I looked away for even a second—she would stop."

Ben stares at me, silent, but it doesn't make me uncomfortable. There's something in his eyes that tells me he understands. "How old were you?"

I will never forget that day for as long as I live. It was my birthday. "Thirteen."

"What happened after that?"

"When she woke up in the morning," my voice cracks, so I clear my throat, "she didn't remember anything she said."

"What happened to your father?"

"He eventually came back," I answer dryly. "He always came back. And they acted like everything was normal, or as normal as life in our house could be. I was always having to take care of them."

Ben's eyes dart back and forth, deep in thought. "But if you were taking care of your parents, who was taking care of you?"

I frown at the idea. "I don't need anyone to take care of me."

"But then why were you taking care of your siblings?"

"Because they were just children," I snap, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Cora," he says slowly, "you were a child."

It's what I've needed to hear for seven painstakingly long years, but I don't know what to do with it. Every conceivable emotion tries to take control at once—I'm angry that I was never allowed to be a child, I'm in mourning for the person I would be today if my parents had been better people, I'm scared that there's no stopping their influence from destroying my life.

I'm going to become my father. My actions are going to directly result in Ben feeling as alienated and lonely as my father made me feel. Ben's right. I ruined his life. I'm going to ruin his life and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

"I ruined your dinner." I stand, dazed, and head towards the kitchen. "Let me make you something."

"Don't worry about that, just please, sit down—"

I stiffen and shrink away at the feeling of his fingers on my arm. "Let me do this," I barely get my request out in a croaking sob. "Please?"

Reaching into a cupboard, Ben pulls out a container of salt and sets it down next to me on the counter. "Continue seasoning with your tears if you so wish," he says. "I just want to let you know you have options."

It's a struggle to breathe while laughing and crying at the same time.

It turns out Ben made one of my favorite NYC staples for dinner—before I broke his table and sent his food flying all over the kitchen. There was still plenty of uncooked falafel in the fridge, but Ben made everything from scratch, so we need to make more pita bread and tahini sauce. I stand at the kitchen counter, chopping up tomatoes, onions, lettuce, lemon, and garlic while Ben insists on helping by grinding up the required herbs in a mortar and pestle.

"I need two sprigs of dill." Ben wipes his hands on his apron, riffles through a drawer, and pulls out pruning shears. "All of the herbs are around the side of the house, under this window," he adds, wagging a thumb at the window over the kitchen sink.

"Why do I have to go get it?"

His expression is serious, but his teasing tone gives him away. "You do know what fresh dill looks like, don't you? For starters, it's green."

I snatch the shears out of his hand and head outside to where he indicated. Up against the side of the house is an herb garden with thriving plants of dill, oregano, basil, rosemary, and what looks like thyme, among others. I return with the dill, wipe my face dry of tears, and watch him grind the herbs up. I've never met someone who actually uses a mortar and pestle. "You're a food snob," I announce into the silence.

I didn't mean it as a complement, but his face brightens. "Thank you."

We continue prepping and cooking in silence until I have nothing left to chop. Ben silently waits for the falafel to finish frying and the pita to get a nice char. Not knowing what to do with myself, I stand nearby and wonder how I'm going to get him a new table without all of this drama unleashing into the rumor mill.

All of the blood rushes out of my face, only to immediately return in a searing blush as I think about his table. The dreams I've been having about him? I'm starting to think they're not just fantasies. They're prophesies. According to one of my recent dreams, this entire encounter was supposed to end very differently. I mean, the table still would have ended up broken, but Ben wouldn't have been mad about it. Not in the slightest.

No matter what I do, we're eventually going to have sex, or Christopher wouldn't exist. But he does exist. Which means our relationship is inevitable.

I watch him concentrate on the food and realize that out of everyone on this island, I enjoy talking to Ben the most. He makes me laugh, and I like making him laugh. Maybe I feel safe around him because he can empathize? I mean, that's why I never told anyone my sob story before. Nobody would get it. My friends sure wouldn't have. I guess in a way it feels good to know somebody else—someone human—knows.

Besides, there is a direct cause-and-effect that results in me getting blasted into the past. For the time being, my future may be inevitable, but if I just live life exactly like I always have, I can hold off the inevitable for longer than usual. But if I'm going to try and remain friends for now, there are some uncomfortable truths that need addressing. "So are we just not going to talk about it?"

Ben flips the falafel with a set of metal tongs. "Talk about what?"

"Christopher."

"What about him?"

"About how he's my son?"

"And I'm sure he's not the only one," Ben muses. "You're thousands of years old. You have a lot of children. How is that any of my business?"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know Christopher is his. Which makes sense. From his perspective, how could Chris be his son? I died when Ben was just a tween. He's unaware something terrible is going to happen that sends pregnant me back to the 70s. Then why was he so upset Chris wanted to introduce himself as my son? Oh, I guess he was worried I'd panic at even more surprising news and call off the wedding again.

I have no idea how to restart this conversation, so I blurt out, "What's the tattoo on your back?"

"A dragon."

"What does it mean?"

Ben chuckles lowly. "It means I thought it was cool at the time."

"Can I see your other tattoo?"

Ben's hesitation makes me momentarily worried that his second tattoo actually is on an embarrassing part of his body. So I'm surprised when he reaches down and pulls up his pant leg to show me a row of runes in the soft flesh behind his knee.

"What does it say?"

Ben pulls his pant leg back down, seemly all too eager to cover it up. "A group of men pinned me to the ground and gave me this shortly after your death. It is the worst insult they have in their language. A word so cursed I've only heard them say it out loud once, when they were marking me."

I lean back against the countertop and stare at him in horror. "Gail didn't stop them?"

"Gail's job was only ever to ensure nobody killed me," Ben answers, shrugging. "So she stood nearby and made sure they didn't kill me."

Nothing can compare to the guilt I feel right now. Not Margo's death. Not Erik's injuries. My mind reels for something to say to selfishly take away some of the blame I'm feeling. "Someone told you to marry me. Right?" Ben looks over at me, ready to respond, but gives up and returns his attention to the food. "See? Someone told you to marry me, so you told me to marry you. Neither of us ever really had a choice."

Ben continues cooking, but it looks as if all the light has washed out of him.

"Ben? Please say something."

"Cora," he gets out in a low, exhausted voice, "I was raised for you. My entire life's purpose is to be your husband. Every significant thing I've ever done has been in preparation to marry you. So you're essentially telling me my life is meaningless."

"What did I say to you? Earlier, you mentioned I had given you orders. When did I give you orders, and what did I say?" I lower my voice at the look of panic on his face. "I'm not angry, I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

Ben finishes removing the falafel and pita from the stovetop and begins assembling the sandwiches. "When I was fifteen—" Ben busies himself with the food, the memory evidently too painful to tell me without sufficient pauses. "I went out to your shrine to kill myself. I'm not proud of it," he adds. "But. . . I was just so lonely. This was before Erik recruited me to the team, so I had no friends. I had no one to talk to. Everyone was constantly threatening to kill me anyway, so I thought why not save them the effort?" He laughs, but it's not funny, and I finally see for myself what I must look like when I laugh inappropriately. "And then suddenly, there you were," he continues. "Wandering out of the trees. You took the knife away from me and said when you came back for good, I'd find a way for us to be together. You made me promise to wait for your return. You said we'd be happier than I could possibly imagine if I could just wait a little longer."

Nobody prepared me for the physical effects of heartbreak, and I can literally feel my heart breaking. All I can do is stare at him when I ask, "Why didn't you tell me this from the beginning?"

Ben starts to respond, but he clears his throat instead and says, "Because I have no way of proving it even happened."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, but it feels hollow. Sorry is for when you step on someone's foot, or accidentally burn dinner. Sorry does not excuse the poor decisions I made that led him to a lifetime of pain and suffering. "Ben, I am so sorry you've been. . . waiting for me to return for so long." We lock eyes and I force myself to keep the contact to ensure he understands how serious I am. "But I need you to understand I don't owe you anything. I'm not sleeping with you tonight, if that's why you're making me food."

"No," he says, looking increasingly insulted at the idea. "What? No, that's not what I—"

"Well," I interrupt, "after everything you've said, what am I supposed to think?"

"Cora, I'm making you food because I want to," he says. "And because, if you've already forgotten, you destroyed my dinner, and I'm hungry. I just want to take care of each other. Can we do that?"

"Ben, you don't want to date me."

"Why not?"

Now it's my turn to laugh when I don't mean it. "Because I'm a mess. You're a mess. Two messes don't clean themselves up, they just make a bigger mess."

"I see," he says, and it's hard to tell just how upset he really is. I watch his index finger tap soundlessly against the countertop. His throat bobs as he swallows. "So, you want me to leave you alone? Because if that's what you want—" I can hear the carefully concealed pain in his pause. "If that's what you truly want, Cora, I've already told you. I'll do whatever you ask of me."

Why are you lying to him? What is the point of lying anymore? Fear of rejection? There's nothing to fear because there is no rejection. He's made that abundantly clear. So, what is it? You can only keep him at arms length for so long. Christopher exists. Our future together is inevitable.

I watch Ben steel himself for more rejection, but the thought of doing so somehow physically hurts even more than the thought of being rejected. If anything, the way he's looking at me just fills my chest with painful sorrow for being the one to disappoint him so severely.

Tell him the truth. He deserves the truth.

" Ben," I whisper, trying my hardest not to be embarrassed that my eyes are already swelling with tears. He's busy watching steam waft off the sandwiches, so I catch him unawares when I reach for his hand, squeezing with what I hope is reassurance. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

"I don't understand." Ben looks transfixed at our clasped hands. His eyes travel up to rest on mine. " What do you want?"

"I . . . I don't know what I want. I don't know how to have a relationship." I heave a sigh in an attempt to keep from crying. "I just want to stop hurting. I want to stop feeling like this all the time. I don't know how to do that."

All of his fingers curl around my hand. "Let me help. We can. . . start all over. Want to help me run some errands tomorrow?"

I laugh, but this time I mean it. "You're supposed to date before marriage, but you skipped that part." Despite my lingering frustrations with learning this marriage was technically built on a lie, I smile at the adorable eagerness on his face. "Can I get a rain check on that? I need to go back to Hydra and change. Oh! How about you come visit me? We can have a picnic on the beach. I could use your advice on some cultural matters."

"I. . . can't do that. It's not that I don't want to," he adds quickly. "It's just that we've worked so hard to secure this treaty. We have to be cognizant of who is around at all times."

"What does that have to do with anything?" I'm starving, and he's just watching the food get cold, so I grab my plate and take a bite. It's so delicious I have to force myself to chew slowly so I can savor it. "I thought you said this was all manufactured?"

"Your people only let me marry you because it's a formality. I'm a joke to them otherwise. Gail has worked very hard when communicating the situation, so the men understand our marriage to be—" Ben suddenly looks uncomfortable as he tries to formulate his thoughts. "They see me as your. . . pet, of sorts. But their wives believe you married me purely as a favor to calm Erik's instability. He actually is certifiably unhinged, by the way. But they never would have allowed this if they believed I'd actually pursue you. And I don't believe they'd be very happy to find out their husbands lied to them."

"Like you lied to me?" I realize something and sigh. "Actually, you're right. We can't let anyone on Hydra find out. Or anyone here, for that matter. Especially Alex."

"Alex?"

"Listen, if one of my friends started dating my dad, I would immediately disown them. You want me to continue giving you intel? Alex can't find out."

"Who says she has to know? Who says anyone has to know?"

"Are you suggesting we secretly date?" That actually sounds nice. I already have no privacy as it is, so taking the extra steps necessary to keep our true relationship completely private seems like a dream come true. "Okay, but you have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Can you ask next time before kissing me?"

"Of course." I watch a flush rush up Ben's throat and spread to his cheeks. "I apologize for earlier. May I kiss you?"

"Yes, like I said, just ask next time." I wait for him to nod or say something, but he just stares expectantly at me. "Wait, are you asking now?" At this, he simply nods, and now I'm the embarrassed one. "I. . uh, I mean, I. . . I guess so. Sure. Yes. Just one," I add nervously.

I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to have this many endorphins clouding your judgement just for a kiss. But when Ben leans down, my heart soars straight out of my chest, and I finally understand why Hydra island has so many children. Our lips press warmly together, but it's not deep, or feverish, or impatient. It's as light as the flap of a butterfly's wing. It's barely a kiss at all.

Ben pulls away first, and his eyes dart to my falafel. "We should finish our sandwiches before they get cold." When he smiles, I'm happy to find his eyes are at least a little less sad.

Alex's room was a treasure trove into understanding her better. Posters for bands I wasn't allowed to listen to as a child are tacked into the walls, her electric guitar is nestled in its case in the corner, and her bed is overflowing with hand-sewn stuffed animals.

I may have snooped through her belongings last night when Ben and I parted ways after dinner, but that's just because I'm taking my job as her guardian seriously! I even found a box of letters she's been exchanging with her friends on Hydra and didn't read them, thank you very much. Trust me, what I found hidden in a box under a loose floorboard is much more entertaining, and I literally can't wait to see the look on her face when she finds out I know her secret.

"Lady Cora!"

I've had quite a few nuisances in my life, but Artz is starting to top that chart. I made the mistake of stepping in and defending him, and now he's obsessed with tracking me down when I visit the Barracks and feeding me trivia about the Vanir and the Aesir, as if I'm going to reward him with a gold star for his efforts.

I originally stepped into a situation in which another survivor was mocking his name. He did a very good job of hiding it, but I could tell how much grief people have given Artz for his name over the course of his life. I can't even imagine the level of bullying that must have happened back when he was in school, and it made me angry on his behalf, so I told him, "There's absolutely nothing wrong with the name Leslie. Any grown adult who says otherwise probably laughs unironically at poop jokes and isn't worth your time."

And now, yet again, I've been spotted.

Jane, Ben, and I have compiled a list of survivors who I know nothing about and cannot vouch for in terms of a safety risk. Then they cross checked my lack of knowledge with whatever they could pull up with their off-island research connections to determine a new schedule for sending people home. Some of the survivors are being watched more closely than others. Artz, evidently, is not one of them.

I see him and force a smile. Even though he is currently low on the list, I need to have a chat with Ben about including Artz in the next sub shipment home. "Hi, Leslie."

Paying my obvious annoyance no mind, Artz starts in again on his stupid Norse trivia. I can't even get a word in to explain that I don't have time for this and need to get back to Hydra. In the end, I turn around and hurry away from him as he trails behind me, spouting factoids.

"Who are you running from?"

I spin around and find Ben leaning against his porch railing. He adjusts his backpack straps before walking down the front steps and standing beside me.

"I'm not running," I say. "I'm. . . power walking."

"Fair enough." Ben steps past me, nonchalantly looking around the side of the house. "Who are you power walking away from?"

"No, no," I say in a rush. "He's—" Artz rounds the corner, and I'm caught all over again.

Ben's tone is friendly, but he doesn't smile when he says, "I don't believe we've met." He holds out a hand. "Benjamin."

Artz shakes it, briefly smiling with disinterest before looking back at me. "Like I was saying, I took quite a few classes on Norse Mythology for my doctorate. Wasn't really required for my major, but I—"

"Hold on," Ben interrupts sharply and gestures towards me. "Did you just refer to her as a myth?" Artz starts spluttering something, but Ben ignores him and turns to me with one eyebrow slightly raised. "Has he been lecturing you about . . . yourself?"

"Look," Artz says. "I didn't mean to offend—"

"No, please continue." I can tell by the ever so subtle change in Ben's eyes that he isn't angry. I'm proven right when he stops fighting a small smile. "This is more amusing than it has any right to be."

"I was wondering if you could show me around, Lady Cora?"

Ben glances at me, and I worry that he won't be able to read the panic in my completely blank expression, but in the end it's a useless worry. Ben notices everything. "Actually," he tells Artz, "I'm afraid she's already made plans to check on our pasture." Ben turns towards me and tilts his head towards his house. "You left your bag inside."

Artz lights up at the news. "Pasture? What kind of animals do you tend? Mind if I join you?"

"Yes, I do mind," Ben answers immediately, his voice quiet but still deceivingly friendly. "This is an official matter, not a tour of our facilities. If you'd like a tour, I suggest you ask Ethan. He'd be more than happy to show you around."

"Right. Well, ah. . . I guess I'll see you around?"

"She lives here," Ben says snidely. I can tell he's getting annoyed. "So there's a high probability of that, yes. For now, goodbye." As soon as Artz has rounded the corner out of sight, Ben turns to fix me with a raised brow. "What did you do?"

"Me? I didn't do anything," I snap. "Someone was making fun of his name, so I stepped in. I was just trying to be nice. And now he won't stop giving me lectures about my own people like some kind of mobile Jeopardy game."

Ben nods, the lingering amusement from before returning in full force. "You should probably meet our cows sooner rather than later. What do you think?"

". . . and Rune said he meant no offense because I was basically everyones mom." I smile at the memory. "And that's when Finn said he loves his mom dearly, but thanks Odin every day that he wasn't born Greek."

"And I'm sure he said that very confidently for someone whose family tree is still a circle."

I break out into fresh laughter as we step out of the trees and head towards a grassy field. My steps slow until I'm standing still. "Is that. . . Mikhail?"

A man that looks suspiciously like Mikhail stands off in the distance, scrubbing a herd of lounging dairy cows with a mop and bucket of soap water. The only reason I'm not fully convinced it is Mikhail is because whoever this is keeps cooing at the cows and calling them my beauties.

Ben calls out to him in greeting, and the man hurries over to us. As he gets closer, I can confirm it's Mikhail after all, and he notices me as well.

Mikhail reaches up and rips off a flower crown, snarling at Ben under his breath, "You didn't mention she would be with you. You give me no warning? My Lady," he proclaims loudly and bows, "it is beyond an honor to meet you at last. Forgive my appearance, as I was not expecting you today."

I have yet to officially meet the cows on Hydra, but I highly doubt they are as well pampered as these cows are. They greet me kindly but lazily, not bothering to get up from their comfortable seats in the grass. Ben pulls assorted vegetables out of his backpack and feeds each cow their own particular favorite.

I don't have a gameplan yet for how I'm going to right the wrongs of the future/past hybrid, but I do know one thing. As long as I don't get pregnant, I'll stay in this time period. But between watching Ben cook and seeing the attention to detail he's paid to know each individual cows favorite snack, I start to regret our secret dating pact. Being alone with him is a very bad idea.

"Thank you for joining me," Ben says. I think for a moment he's leaning down to kiss me, and I find I'm disappointed he's following my request not to kiss me without my permission. Instead, I feel his face hover near my ear. "But you should probably head back to Hydra. Send me a raven when you've rested up. And have Gail request you a new swimsuit."

"What for?"

"Because I've decided on our next date," he whispers. "I'm going to teach you how to swim."