“Sit still,” he grits out. “Unless you’d rather I leave you bleeding in the dirt?”
“Don’t pretend you care about me.”
“That’s all I’ve ever done!” he blares, and I wince, a throb pulsing through my skull. I waver, almost falling backwards if it weren’t for Wyatt’s quick grip on my arms. Catching himself, he exhales harshly and releases his hold, testing my balance to remain sitting upright. “You read those letters. You know exactly how I feel.”
“Lies,” I bite out, glaring at him with every ounce of defiance I have left. “You wrote those to toy with me, just another way to torture me when you weren’t around. You knew when I finally found out, I’d be utterly crushed. Congratulations, you’ve succeeded.” Wyatt lets out a mirthless laugh, a single, harsh sound.
“Sure. Whatever you say, Angel.”
I clamp my mouth shut, watching his hands with narrowed eyes. I won’t let him goad me, and no way in hell will I let him know how much I hate that pet name. Wyatt returns to my temple, carefully placing tape stitches on what feels like a gigantic bump. I look anywhere he isn’t. Every tree is nearly gnarled with age, their roots spilling up from the ground like tangled fingers. The tarmac road slices through the treeline, harsh in comparison to the nature that surrounds it.
The crash replayed over and over again in my mind. The moment I lunged, the way his breath hitched when he realized I had him. And now we’re stuck in this miserable dance of dependency, each of us too hurt to leave, both too furious to let go.
“The cut isn’t too deep,” Wyatt says suddenly, his thumb grazing the bruise on my head, “but I don’t like the idea of you going to sleep anytime soon. For some reason, Hux’s trunk was packed with camping gear. I’ll set up a tent and we can rest until you’re ready to start walking.”
My gaze briefly drifts back to the SUV, also snagging on Huxley’s need to hoard camping supplies. Then the memory of the safe house comes rushing back, and I realize he was preparing for the worst. An attack from Fredrick that would cause us to go off grid. Ironically, that’s exactly what’s happened, but not in the way any of the Souls could have anticipated.
I rip my chin free of Wyatt’s hold, every inch of me screaming not tolet him see any weakness. “I’m not going to be stuck here with you. I need to get back home. I need to help Meg.”
Wyatt’s expression shifts, and for a split second, I think I see something break beneath the cold detachment. He recoils, pressing his lips into a thin line, and he begins to pack up the first aid kit. The cold bites harder as his warmth pulls away, leaving only the hollow echo of our shared breath in the stillness. When he finally breaks the silence, his tone is almost resigned.
“Stay with Baxter. I’ll look for level ground.”
I grit my teeth, every part of me wanting to argue, to run, but fatigue pulls at my limbs, settling into my bones with a relentless ache. The fight drains from me, leaving only raw tension and the dawning reality of our situation. Getting one up on Wyatt seemed like all that mattered in the car, but maybe I should have waited until we were near some sort of civilization.
Curling my arms around Baxter, I half drag us both towards a tree trunk and slump against it. The large hound shifts his way up my body until his warmth seeps into my front, his head on my shoulder. His breathing is easy to mimic, deep, and soothing. I stroke him absentmindedly, my eyes drifting closed.
“Hey!” Wyatt throws a packaged brioche at me. “Eat, and no sleeping!”
Despite Wyatt’s orders, I rouse to the feeling of a wet tongue on my uninjured cheek. I come around much slower than usual, lazily blinking upwards to a green tarp covering. Below me, the ground is cushioned by what I imagine are sleeping bags layered on top of one another, a blanket over my front. I shake my head, grumbling at Baxter. The hound retreats, jumping over my body to get to Wyatt instead. I flinch, the low tremor of a headache slicing through me, much to Wyatt’s amusement.
“Told you not to go to sleep.” His face is now being attacked with long strokes of Baxter’s tongue, but he’s not brushing them away. He welcomes them, a soft smile on his mouth as he ruffs up the fur aroundthe dog’s neck. I lie there, just watching. Am I still asleep? Have I woken up in a different reality, where Wyatt is just a joy-filled guy with a soft spot for mutts? He’s certainly never shown the same affiliation for me.
Giggling bubbles from my lips. As if I want Wyatt fawning all over me, calling me a good girl, and fluffing up my hair. The thought gets more ridiculous, and I convince myself I am indeed still asleep. Or dead, possibly dead.
“What’s so funny?” Wyatt cuts through my laughter. I don’t respond, gently pushing myself up onto my elbows.
A small package lands on my chest with a soft thud, that same brioche bouncing off my blanket before resting on the ground. I stare at it, fingers itching to tear it open even as resentment builds. Wyatt sits in the corner, his green gaze trained as if daring me to ignore him. I want to tell him I don’t need his help and that I’d rather starve than accept anything from him. But my stomach betrays me, twisting with the pangs of hunger that have been gnawing at me since we crashed.
Reluctantly, I reach for the brioche, peeling back the wrapper with shaky fingers. It’s absurdly sweet, the taste settling like syrup on my tongue, and I try not to imagine him smirking at my compliance. Wyatt watches in silence, releasing his hold on Baxter so that the pup can settle beside him. Large brown eyes track the brioche, a low whine escaping him. Breaking it in half, I feed him whilst altogether ignoring the fact that Wyatt might be hungry too. He made his terrible choices; he can fend for himself.
“Feel better?” Wyatt asks after a beat, his voice a shade gentler.
“Do you want me to thank you or something?” I snap, surprised at the bitterness that laces my tone. He doesn’t deserve it, at least not right now, but I can’t help it. The anger that simmers beneath the surface refuses to die down, lingering in my veins like a toxic burn. Although who I’m mad at is blurry, and I fear the answer might be myself.
Wyatt only sighs, cracking his neck side to side. “No, Avery. I don’t want your thanks.” His eyes, normally sharp and calculating, appear reserved as he looks at me, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “I’ve spent years harboring your hatred for me. I’m not going to shy away from it now.”
“Such a martyr,” I huff and clench my jaw tight. I can’t speak for harboring hatred because I’m a sap for a lost cause, but he’s done afantastic job at fucking with my head. I don’t know what I feel for him anymore. I don’t know what I want from him, except for the space to pull myself together. An idea begins to take shape in my mind. The same one I started in the car and executed poorly. I need to take back control.
After a few minutes of silence, I shift, pulling myself fully into a half-seated position. Wyatt’s eyes track me, wary but calm. “What now?” he mutters, his tone tired. I keep my voice low and casual, forcing myself not to look at him.
“I need to pee,” I say simply.
“Seems like Huxley thought of that too.” Following Wyatt’s gaze, I spot a stack of small boxes beside some heavy-duty torches, each one labeled as a ‘personal toilet.’ My nose scrunches up, then I scoff out a ridiculous laugh when I realize Wyatt is serious.
“I hardly think we’re on peeing in front of each other terms.” I watch Wyatt’s nostrils flare, dreading what his response might be. Something along the lines of seeing me in many other compromising positions before. The heat hits my cheeks, twinging slightly, but thankfully Wyatt doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he shrugs, nodding toward the dense line of trees just outside the tent.
“Fine. But don’t take too long. It’ll be dark soon,” he says. I stutter to a halt.
