On The Bound

014. Draw Lines and Cross Them

A shiver of uncertainty ran down Natalie's spine. She didn't know what unsettled her more—the way Sade's fingers clenched around the figurine like a lifeline, or the way she spoke, like she wanted to believe it. Like she needed to. Staring at the owl figurine, the tiny thing seeming heavier than it should in Sade's grip. The cabin light casts jagged shadows across its carved face, making it look almost alive.

"So what?" Natalie whispered. "You think Javi's still out there because of a fucking dream?"

Sade's jaw tightens, ashamed.

"I don't know what I think."

Nat lets her face soften, blushed nose scrunching as she turns to Sade's frame when the Thorne girl curls in on herself.

For the first time in months, she takes a good look at Sade. The deepening eye-bags that have permanently made residence on her features, hollowed cheeks that speak of restless, famished nights, and the slight tremble in her fingers as she clutches her sleeves. Natalie takes it all in—the exhaustion, the quiet desperation hidden beneath Sade's usual sharp exterior.

For a moment, she hesitates. Sade has never been one to accept comfort easily, always keeping others at arm's length with her thorny demeanor. But now, curled in on herself like a wounded animal, she looks small—too small for someone who carries so much weight on her shoulders.

Natalie lets out a quiet sigh before reaching out, her hand hovering just above Sade's shoulder. She doesn't say anything at first, only watching as the girl flinches slightly at the closeness. Still, she doesn't pull away. Instead, she merely looks down at Natalie with tired eyes, as if waiting for whatever judgment is to come. The weight of that gaze makes something in Natalie falter.

The pad of Natalie's icy hands subconsciously find their way onto Sade's arms, rubbing slow circles against the cold. She can feel the way Sade's skin prickles beneath her touch, muscles tensing. The wind was picking up outside, slipping through the cracks in the cabin's walls.

"It doesn't make sense, Sade. We searched for days. If he were alive, he'd be back by now. He needs to mourn." She didn't answer right away. Instead, Sade turns the owl over in her palm again, her thumb tracing the delicate wings as if committing every feather to memory.

"Maybe I do too, huh?"

The implications of Sade losing her mother isn't lost on Nat. Over with cold cigarettes and cheap Vodka, they had once bonded over the slaughterhouse that were their homes. Natalie's fingers tighten around Sade's arms. "Then mourn," she whispers, almost pleading. "But don't act like—" She stops herself. The words taste bitter on her tongue, like she already knows they won't reach her.

"I never said that," Natalie starts again, her hands still resting on Sade's arms. The warmth of her skin is startling against the cold. The brown-skinned girl lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but it's not a happy thing. It's the kind of smile you see in old religious portraits—the kind that belongs to martyrs who know how their stories end.

"Didn't you?" she murmurs, still fixated on the trinket in her hands. "Isn't that what you want, Nat? To feed us? To save me?" Her voice is quiet, but sharp, like a blade pressed against Natalie's ribs.

"I just-"

"You think I'm lost," Sade's lips are twisted, tilting her head slightly, her lips curling at the edges in something too tired to be a smirk. The way Judas might have looked at Christ the moment before the kiss. "And you want to bring me back, don't you?"

Natalie doesn't answer. She can't. Because Sade is right. Sade is always fucking right when it comes to Nat, whether she likes it or not. And yet, there's something in the way she says it, something laced with sorrow, with the kind of knowing that only comes from someone who has already made peace with their impending damnation.