I shoulder the door open. Don't bother with the light switch. Sunlight spills through the duct-taped window, casting golden light across the sparse furnishings. Steel-frame bed against one wall. Gun rack, empty except for the 12-gauge I keep for emergencies. Metal locker for clothes. Door in the corner leading to a tiny bathroom—the only room in this hallway with an en suite.
My smile is stupid, but it’s real.
I made it.
I fuckin’ made it.
Nah, it’s not the home I hoped for. But it is still a home. Which is more than I can say for that godforsaken trailer that spits out evil every time someone goes in.
I'm halfway to the bed when I see her.
Small shape curled on my mattress. Dark hair spilling across my pillow. Knees tucked to chest.
Mercy.
Fuck.
I forgot she was here.
She's fast asleep, wearing someone’s borrowed shorts and a club t-shirt that ten sizes too big for her. She’s got the BB gun tucked against her chest like a teddy bear, finger resting near the trigger even in sleep. Her face is relaxed in a way it never is when she's awake—softer, younger. Reminds me how fucking young nine really is.
I stand there swaying, trying to decide what to do. My drunk brain offers no solutions. I should sleep on the floor. Let her have the bed. But my body aches for a tiny bit of comfort as the brand throbs under my cut.
"Mercy," I whisper, then realize I'm still too loud. Prison voice. She doesn't stir. Sleeps the deep sleep of the exhausted, the kind I haven't had since before Whitefall.
I ease down onto the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb her. The mattress dips under my weight. Springs creak in protest.
Her eyes snap open. Alert instantly. No slow drift to consciousness. One moment asleep, the next fully aware, gun barrel shifting to center on my chest.
"Easy, there," I slur. "Juss me."
Recognition dawns. The gun lowers fractionally.
"You smell like whiskey," she says, voice scratchy with sleep.
"Yeahhhhh." No point denying it. "Party got wild. You okay up here alone?"
She nods, sitting up. The BB gun never leaves her grip. "Diesel brought me food. Said to wait for you."
"You can have the bed," I tell her, starting to stand. "I'll take the?—"
"No." Her hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist. Surprising strength in those small fingers. "Stay."
I look down at her. Really look. See the fear hiding behind those Kane eyes—the same eyes that stare back at me from the mirror. Fear of being left. Of being alone. Of waking up and finding everyone gone again.
"Ight," I say, kicking off my boots. I’m hardly in the mood to put up a fight. Especially over something I want. "Scoot over."
She slides to the wall, making room. I stretch out beside her, on top of the thin blanket while she stays beneath it. The bed's barely big enough for me, let alone both of us, but we make it work. She curls against my side, small and warm, the BB gun now pointed safely away.
"They burned you," she says, not a question. Her eyes fixed on the bandage visible through my torn shirt.
"Yeahhhhh."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yeahhhhh."
"Good," she says with fierce satisfaction. "Means it's real."
