“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
We start moving.
It’s agonizingly slow. Every step is a battle. We limp down the dark corridor, leaving a trail of blood drops on the stone behind us.
“We need to get to the alcove,” he wheezes. “Before the next patrol.”
We make it ten feet. Twenty. We reach the section of the corridor where the stone transitions into a heavy iron grating over a drainage trench.
Then, we hear it.
Boots.
Coming from the boiler room. Running.
“They found the body,” Cassian whispers.
“Here,” I say, pulling him into a shallow maintenance alcove past the grates. There’s a cluster of vertical pipes that we’re small enough to fit behind.
We press ourselves into the shadows, and I jam my hands over his torn shoulder, trapping the blood tight against his skin. Any drops that slip past my fingers fall through the iron grating into the dark water below, breaking the trail.
Cassian is swaying, his breath loud and rattling in his throat.
“Quiet,” I whisper.
I reach up and press my bloody hand over his mouth. He goes still, his fading eyes locking onto mine.
We stand there, chest to chest, tangled together in the dark. His failing heart hammers against my own and the heat of his blood soaks straight through my sweater.
The footsteps get louder. A beam of light sweeps the corridor, pausing over the dead soldier, then tracing the red drops on the stone.
The light swings toward us, hitting the pipes and slicing across the floor inches from my boots.
I stop breathing.
If they see us, we’re dead. Cassian can’t fight. I have the pistol tucked in my waistband, but if I draw it now, they’ll hear.
Please,I silently pray.
The light lingers on the pipes for an agonizing second before swinging down to the floor.
“The blood trail stops at the grating,” a voice shouts down the corridor. “They must have crossed over. Spread out. Check the junction.”
The footsteps recede, moving away to search the wider tunnels.
I sag against the wall, my knees trembling as I pull my hand from Cassian’s mouth.
He takes a deep, ragged breath. His face is inches from mine. In the gloom, he’s just a man bleeding out in the dark, but the lethal edge hasn’t completely left his eyes.
“Can you walk?” I ask, my chest heaving.
“If you help me.”
“I’ve got you.” I wedge my shoulder back under his good arm. “Let’s go.”
We step out of the shadows. He’s heavy, and his skin is terrifyingly cold, but he’s alive. Together, we limp toward the bunker door, leaving the war behind us.
20
