“Go! We’ll find you when we’ve handled this,” Ambrosia yells. Her last words are knocked out of her mouth when she clatters to the asphalt.
Mara’s about to slice through the impenetrable-looking armor when she’s enclosed in a body of water. I watch her drown, the horror on her face, preserved in the bubble—the realization she can’t do anything if she wishes not to zap herself into oblivion. Tommy drowning Callum at Emery’s party comes back to me.
Conin and Atlas don’t stop. We’re suddenly inside a car garage, a repair shop in various stages of work, abandoned and now isolated. I’m on the concrete floor, back pressed againsta brick wall, while Atlas and Conin traverse the claustrophobic space to barricade the doors with whatever they can find.
Now that I’m not moving or caught in the adrenaline of our threatening predicament, the burn on my skin swelters ferociously. It’s cold one minute, then brutally hot the next. I suck in my teeth. My lips press into a tight line. I inhale deeply and then exhale, drawing my breath out as if this exercise will help me. What occurs instead is that familiar, numbing sensation. It returns with a debilitating vengeance.
Conin abruptly shoves a tool cart in front of the back door we came in. The numbness disassociates my thoughts as they spread out into the cosmos. Lost in space, in my increasing worries, they wash over and pull me down until I suffocate.
Chapter 40
Conin
The distant pops of gunfire work their way to our ears. We’re barricaded in this car shop with whatever could be mobilized—wrenches, crowbars, and worktables. No one speaks as we set up to treat Ezra’s wound—a gaping second-degree burn that wraps and builds up the length of his forearm. I can barely eye it without feeling squeamish.
With the adrenaline from a moment ago fading little by little, I step onto my bad ankle. It wails in agony, screaming for me to relent, but finding a first aid kit for Ezra takes priority. Atlas absorbs my sorry state, most likely aware of my injury, and tells me to keep Ezra company while he seeks out treatment for the burns. I huff, then acquiesce and settle next to Ezra’s frame. He sucks his teeth in. His breaths are deliberate but distressed. The longer he and I remain this way, the more my ankle throbs.
Ezra’s burn comes first.
“Can I?” I ask, indicating his arm.
He concedes, then raises his forearm for me to assess. Atlas rummages through the car shop’s office in the background. The gunfire tapers off but still sounds in occasional, staccato bursts. Ezra jumps at each one. His arm jolts, instinctively retracting from me, but I gently pull it back. The burns could’ve been worse. So much worse. When I’ve finished studying the extent of the injury, I slither my hands to his own and lace my fingers with his. He glances at me questioningly, but my heart’s too much of a mess to say anything.
“Co?” he whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “for springing that on you earlier.”
“It’s—”
“But I needed to tell you in case something bad happened. And something bad has happened, so you deserve to know the truth.”
He says nothing this time. Somehow, this makes it much harder to continue. I want to be a writer, yet finding the proper words to say in real time may be the hardest thing ever.
“I’ve loved you for so long,” I confess again, letting the words ring true. Atlas was right. Admitting this to Ezra releases a burden that was weighing down my shoulders, but it does nothing to stop the racing thoughts.
More rustling from the office. A yelp of success.
Ezra shudders and inhales a bated breath.
“I love you too,” he says softly.
Those four words spark wisps of euphoria that electrify my skin, raise the hairs on the nape of my neck, make my blood rush warm, and breathe life into me in a way I’ve never felt before. I bite back suppressed tears and feel a harsh sting as my eyelids brim.
“Y-you do?”
“Yes. For so long . . . too long,” he laughs. It’s forced and jumbled, but fuck, his mirth sounds paradisical.
I feel like I’m floating in midair. Ezra’s hand keeps me grounded, tethering me to this earth. I forget about the tether that binds him to Atlas, about the past week and all the weeks before. I forget about the battle that ensues outside. Because Ezra loves me, and I love him.
“When this is over . . . when we get out of this, because wewillget out of this, I’m going to kiss you so fucking hard, so you better not die,” I promise.
An incentive to stay alive.
“Kiss me,” Ezra breathes. “We might not live through this, so kiss me now. No regrets.”
It’s a dreadful statement, enough that I almost hang back. Want fuels the verdict instead.
“Drop the glamor, Ezra. I want to kissyou.”
