“Right on the sternum.” I smile, sitting up and rolling my neck until it cracks. “Gonna leave a stain.”
She flushes, looking mortified as some color returns to her eyes. Good. Angry or embarrassed is better than that hollow, resigned look.
“Relax. I’m kidding.” I grab my water bottle and take a swig, rinsing the taste of morning breath and copper out of my mouth before offering it to her.
She hesitates.
“Take it,” I say, harder than intended.
She grabs the bottle. “Thanks.”
“How’s the head?”
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Fine.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“It hurts.” She hands me back the bottle. “But I can walk. I won’t… I won’t slow you down.”
Another stamp on the asshole card. How many do I have now?
Enough.
I need to get better at communicating. I never had that problem, or more like I didn’t care until now.
“Context matters.” I shove my water bottle into my pack, zipping it closed. “I was mad because you rantowarddanger. That’s not what I told or taught you.”
She flinches, pulling her knees to her chest. “When do we leave?”
I scrub a hand over my face, the stubble grating against my palm. I’m fucking up again, ain’t I?
“Listen to me.” I crouch in front of her and tip up her chin, forcing her to look at me. “I didn’t want you running after me because I couldn’t protect both of us. And you?—”
“I can take care of myself.” Her chin juts out, defiant even in my grasp.
“You were concussed and barely holding a knife right. But you’re not baggage, and while you may slow me down because you’re doing—” I sigh. “You’re not a burden.”
“Then why?—”
“Because I can’t lose another person.” The words scrape out of my throat. “I’ve already got enough ghosts. I don’t need yours, too. So when I tell you to run, even if it means leaving me behind, you do just that. Understood?”
Her mouth opens, those perfect lips parting in a small sound that goes straight to my?—
I stand up, ignoring the need to run my fingers over her lips. “Pack up. We move in five.”
She nods, her fingers ghosting over her chin. “Okay.”
I move to the trapdoor and slide the rusted bolt back. Green and brown blur below. No gray faces. No movement. No answering groans. Even the birds are keeping their mouths shut.
“Clear,” I whisper.
I look back. She’s standing now, hand resting on the hilt of the knife I gave her. She looks like hell—bruised, pale, clothes hanging off her frame—but she’s standing.
“You take the rear,” I tell her. “Watch our six.”
“Got it.”
“And Dakota?”
