Private.
Right.
No neighbors. No drunks. No watchful eyes.
Just darkness and dust and the possibility of the whole thing collapsing on her in her sleep. Then something colder dawned on me. A young woman. Alone. In a city crawling with men who had nothing left to lose.
"How old are you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Eighteen."
Eighteen.
Jesus Christ.
A girl her age should've been worrying about dances or school or whatever German girls did before the world caught fire. Not this. Not sleeping in a ruin like a trapped animal.
"Unprotected," I muttered before I could catch the word. "In a place like this…"
She stiffened, but she didn't argue. Maybe she didn't have the energy.
And maybe—dammit—maybe she wasn't wrong. Maybe the ruins hid her better than any crowded street would. It was a shitty kind of safety, but it was the only kind she had. Before I could say anything else, a voice called from somewhere inside the rubble.
"Inga?"
Her spine went rigid. "Klaus?"
A small figure appeared between broken bricks. Then another behind him, also small, keeping back like he didn't want to be seen. Klaus clambered forward, clutching the edge of a wall for balance, his clothes dusty, his face drawn.
"Inga," he said shakily, "I'm sorry…"
She rushed toward him. "Klaus? Are you hurt?"
He shook his head too fast. "Bastian and his friends came. They… they trashed our home."
My blood turned to fire. "They what?"
Klaus looked at me shyly and ducked his head. "They took my chocolate."
"He caught a Hershey bar a couple of days ago," Inga looked up for just a moment before she turned back to her brother. "Areyouokay?" Urgently checking him over with quick, trembling hands.
"I'm okay," he whispered. "I just—wanted to save some. For later. They grabbed it. I couldn't stop them."
The shame on his face… It hit me straight in the gut.
"Who is Bastian?" I asked, my voice low, dangerous. I already felt the dragon shifting under my ribs. The bastard would rue the moment he dared mess with what was mine.Mine?
Before I could go any further with that particular train of a headache, Inga explained, "He's the leader of the Trümmerkinder."
"The Trumm—what?"
"Trümmer… rubble. Rubble children." She sighed. "Orphans. Kids who live in ruins. They survive in packs, like stray dogs."
I stared at her. "Wait—he's achild?"
She nodded. I felt fury coil so tight in my chest I had to take a breath to keep from growling. "A kid did this tohim?Toyou?"
"They're desperate," she whispered. "Hungry. Angry. Lost. It's just how things are. I'll takeit from here?—"
