I stare at the ceiling.
I think about bounty boards and darknet servers and men who trade lives like currency.
I think about Lark, barefoot in the kitchen, trying not to admit she’s scared.
I think about the way she looked at me when I told her I’d protect her.
I think:You are in so much trouble, Hayes.
But under that, deeper:
I think:I would burn this whole forest down before I let them touch her.
Somewhere down the hall, I hear the bedroom door click softly, the creak of the bed as she climbs in. A beat later, her voice drifts faint from the gloom.
“Knight?”
“Yeah?”
A pause.
“Don’t die, okay?”
I swallow. “I won’t,” I say into the dark. “Not while you’re here.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: “Good. Because if anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s me.”
I huff out a laugh. “Go to sleep, Birdie.”
“Night.”
Eventually, exhaustion drags me under.
My last conscious thought is a vow I don’t say out loud:
Whoever put our faces on that list?
They’re going to learn what it feels like to beg.
And I’m not sure if it’ll be for mercy?—
Or for it to be over.
EIGHT
THE PART WHERE I DEFINITELY DON’T CLIMB ON HIM
LARK
I can’t sleep.
The bed is comfortable. Too comfortable. The sheets are soft, the pillow smells faintly like laundry detergent and woodsmoke, and the blanket is warm enough that I should be snoring by now.
But my brain?
My brain is a bookshelf after an earthquake.
I flip onto my back and stare at the shadowed ceiling.
