Chapter 4

Four

T he dark gray snow clouds that have blocked the sun for days have finally broken. I close the house door behind me and pause to take in the billions if not trillions of tiny snowflakes unite to create a thick white blanket as far as the eye can see. It’s blinding the way the sun’s rays reflect off the snow. I squint to take in the way nature has adorned our old country style house with long pointed icicles hanging from the eves. On the outskirts of the property, a slight breeze catches the powdery snow weighing down the branches of the pine trees, creating a fog of icy dust. The Ellery estate is the perfect picture of a winter wonderland.

I adjust the strap of the duffel bag over my shoulder and descend the porch’s wooden steps. As soon as Ryland said he was ready to venture into town, I prepared to go. We need to get this over with since waiting will do more harm than good. Sleeping soundly through the night when the next day brings a chance of imminent danger is next to impossible, and lack of sleep is a recipe for disaster. Our safest bet is to find what the guys need and quickly return home. Procrastination holds no comfort when there’s the chance of dying at the hands of hungry, flesh-eating ex-humans.

The snow crunches beneath my black boots, and inside my pocket, a knife taps against my leg with each step. I opted to forego my usual heavy coat and fleece-lined gloves for a sleeker look—a tight black thermal shirt topped with a thin black jacket. My unruly brown hair is pulled into a ponytail at my nape and topped with my favorite gray beanie. I don’t give much thought to what I wear these days, but this is my badass take-no-prisoners look. Even in a world full of Zs, a girl sometimes has to dress the part in order to feel it.

I step from around the house and find everyone waiting for me in front of the garage. Our uninvited guests have all returned to wearing the clothes they had on last night, and their backpacks hang loosely from their shoulders, waiting to be restocked during today’s outing. Each of them has an anxious energy that they seem eager to unleash. I understand the feeling. Sometimes I feel like I can take on a whole slew of Zs, all the while I’m a nervous wreck.

I’ve walked the property and driven into town by myself a time or two since the quarantine, but never have I left River behind with someone else. Granted, I’m overreacting a bit, the chances of Aiden finding enough energy to attack my cousin is like one in a million, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying. It’s all I seem to do these days.

I lift the panel to the garage’s security pad and enter the pin with trembling fingers. The jig’s about to be up on one of our most carefully guarded secrets.

River steps beside me, and together, we raise the door. Our routine is like a choreographed dance—I crawl under the front of the old blue truck and unplug it from the charger while she looks under the hood and checks all the fluids.

Noah stands next to River, examining the internal workings. In complete awe, he says, “It’s electrical.”

I stand and find River smiling at his childlike fascination. Her cheeks brighten with a hint of pink, and her eyes lock onto his hands fidgeting around with the wiring.

“It’s pretty amazing, right? My dad is an engineer who specializes in alternative energy. The truck is electrical, but also has the capability to run off ethanol gas, which he used to make here.”

“The fact that he converted an automobile this old into an energy-efficient machine while keeping so many of its original parts is remarkable,” he gushes, leaning in to examine the engine closer.

The pride River shows at this moment tells of how much she loves and admires her father. Not that I blame her, but my respect for Josh is for an entirely different reason. It’s not every day you hear of a brother taking on the task of raising his sister’s child, but that’s what he did. He’s not only my uncle, but the only father I’ve ever known.

River doesn’t bother with downplaying her dad’s greatness. “If you think this is amazing, you should see all the upgrades to the house. It’s powered by solar and wind energy, and it filters the water from the lake on the edge of the property. It is completely self-sufficient—off the grid.”

My body buzzes with nervous tension as she gives away our secrets one by one. “All right, that’s enough nerdy flirting from you two,” I say. “We need to get on the road, so we can be back before dark.”

They take a step back and I close the hood with a bang.

Noah’s face reddens as our gazes meet. “We weren’t… I wasn’t flirting.”

Wes opens the truck door, saying, “As painful as it was to watch, you were flirting. Honestly, your game is a bit shit.”

The mortified young man steps away from River with a strained smile. He scurries behind the front seat to join Wes on the bench in the back, and immediately, the two exchange heated whispers.

River closes the space between us and pulls me into a hug. She presses her cheek to mine and quietly says, “Well, he is cute.”

The lack of social interaction in our current situation is bound to make anyone hypersensitive to any attention given to them. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Noah is handsome, despite the unkempt facial hair and the filthy strands on the top of his head. It’s strange. Just yesterday, the idea of having a crush on someone would have been absurd, but here River stands smitten with a boy.

I roll my eyes. “Promise me you’ll stay in the bunker until we get back.”

She reaches up to my beanie and rights it on my head with both of her hands. “First, admit Noah’s cute.”

The light gray color of her eyes reflects humor and a hint of lightheartedness. She’s held steadfast to a piece of her innocence in spite of a deadly disease, estranged parents, and ravenous people-eaters. Our eye color is the only physical trait that can attest to the fact we are related. Yet, it’s also the telltale sign that we are so vastly different.

Lightly squeezing her hands, I move them away from my face. “Stay out of trouble, Riv.”

Without further delay, I jump into the driver’s seat and start the engine. The truck is deceitfully quiet, disguising its real power.

Ryland opens the passenger’s side door and slides in next to me. I spare him a sideways glance while he focuses straight ahead. His fingers curl into fists and his jaw flexes. He reminds me of a fighter who refuses to let his opponent see his weakness. Just like those who have trained to fight in the ring, I have a feeling his downfalls are limited. He’ll do whatever it takes to win.

I back out of the garage and wait for River to close the door before I pull onto the rustic dirt road. My attention is divided between steering through the trees and Noah. He cranes his neck as we pass two critical structures on the property—Amara’s greenhouse and Josh’s workshop. His curiosity for either building makes me uncomfortable. Next to the bunker, they’re our safety nets. One is the major supplier of our food, and the other protects a small fleet of energy-efficient vehicles like the truck. Both resources are worth more than their weight in gold in a society that no longer produces such luxuries.

I’m preparing a story to stifle his curiosity when he asks, “Is that a cell phone tower?”

“Yes,” I slowly answer.

His question about the tall tower disguised as a massive pine tree is unexpected. One of the major cell phone companies paid my uncle a load of money to build it on the property. Amara wasn’t fond of the idea and only agreed once they promised to dress it up as one of the surrounding trees. Even with its fake branches and faux brown bark, it’s never quite fit in.

Leaning forward to get a better view, Noah asks, “Does it work?”

I shrug. “It did before the blackout.”

With a hum, he sits back and falls silent with the rest of the passengers.

I find it hard to keep my concentration on the road. It’s been a year and a half since I last spent an extended amount of time with someone other than my cousin. There was a time when I looked forward to making new friends, trying new things, and living outside of my comfort zone. Now, the presence of strangers unsettles me. I question if I’ll ever get used to having anyone but River within arm’s length. If the nerves I feel right now are any indication, the answer is no.

We turn onto the main road leading to town, and I take in the familiar sights that are at the same time unrecognizable to me. The mom-and-pop store with its awning over the storefront flapping in the freezing wind, the gas station with its pumps rendered useless, and the movie theater where half of the letters on its marquee are missing. Devil’s Lake is a shell of the cozy small town it used to be.

“What’s your plan?” Ryland asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

I gather my wits and with as much authority as possible say, “There’s a middle-class neighborhood east of downtown, and the homes are abandoned. If people are hanging around here, my guess is they’ve moved north to the more expensive houses. Hopefully, we’ll find everything we need without any trouble.”

A motion in my peripheral vision catches my attention. Ryland pulls the pendant hanging from the chain around his neck in between his fingers and rubs the smooth surface. It’s the first sign of a nervous habit he’s shown since I met him. The tiny gesture may betray him, but his deep voice doesn’t. “Give me the worst-case scenario. What kind of trouble might we run into? ”

“We hardly ever encounter people; it’s mostly Zs and one or two at the most,” I say.

“You mean someone with the Z virus?”

“Sorry, yeah, one of the Afflicted.” I roll my eyes. I hate the humanizing term, but I also laugh every time someone says zombies. The countless creatures I’ve killed don’t possess an ounce of humanity and they’re not reanimated corpses, moaning about eating brains. So Zs it is.

I steer the truck away from the road and park it in a thicket of high brush covered in snow. “We’re going to walk the rest of the way. I don’t want to risk there being anyone around that might try to steal the truck. It’s only about two blocks to the neighborhood,” I say, exiting the vehicle.

I pull my duffel bag from under my seat. Inside is a small medical kit, two bottles of water, and five guns—one of which is the revolver Ryland pointed at me last night. Reaching over the seat, I hold it out to him. “Try not to aim it at my head now that it has bullets in it.”

Ryland takes my offering while biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Opening the revolving chamber, he lets it spin once before saying thank you .

I raise the front of my shirt and slide a semiautomatic handgun into my waistband at my hip. “Five shots isn’t a lot,” I state, referring to the bullet capacity of his gun.

“No,” he says.

Wes moves beside me and says, “Ry only takes clear shots.”

Waiting for a clear shot must be nerve-wracking. River and I always do our best not to waste our ammunition, but there are times when adrenaline and panic drive us. Rapidly firing while a Z runs at superhuman speed to eat our faces off doesn’t leave a chance to contemplate if we’re using ammo responsibly. We shoot until we hit a vital organ, and they fall dead.

Taking an extra gun from the bag, I hand it to Ryland. “Just in case you get more than five clear shots today.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, placing the revolver in the back of his pants and leaving the semi-automatic out.

The remaining two weapons I give to Noah and Wes, who proceed to check them for ammo.

I say a silent prayer that I don’t regret arming these guys. Every minute I’m with them, they learn something new about how River and I made it this far. It’s information they could use against us. Even if they don’t intend to physically harm us, they could take advantage by stealing or perhaps overpower us for rule of the house. Every day they’re in our home is a chance to take a jar of jam or to sneak into our bags and confiscate a box of bullets. They can gradually build up their resources until Aiden gets better, and when they’re ready, they’ll take the truck in the middle of the night and be long gone without us knowing any better.

I couldn’t hold it against them if they double-crossed us. We live in a world where good old-fashioned morals are pushed aside for survival. Still, I don’t want to feel like a fool for giving them the guns they use to rob us.

I sling my duffel bag across my torso and lock the vehicle. With weapons in hand, Noah and Wes move to either side of me, and Ryland takes the lead. I pick up my pace, matching his long strides while shooting him a side-long glare. It’s noble that they want to protect the girl, but they’re blocking my view of what’s coming for us. I’ve gotten this far holding my own, and I’m not letting that change today.

It’s eerily quiet when we approach the homes we plan to ransack. There is no sound of traffic or dogs barking in the distance, just the crunching of our steps in the snow. Trees line the street, and white picket fences border the two-story homes. The windows are dark, and some homes sit with their front doors wide open. All signs of life have vanished, leaving behind a ghost town haunted by Zs.

As if we are making a house call, Noah knocks on the first door. We wait to see if anyone answers before Ryland steps to the side and moves me behind him. I gasp at his audacity, and he gives me a sharp glare. I bite my tongue, knowing this isn’t the time to argue, and shoot him a death glare. With a shake of his head and his mouth quirked, he reaches for the door handle and finds it unlocked. He swings it open, keeping against the outer wall.

“Hello? Is there anyone here?” he shouts. When no one answers, he turns to us, blocking our entry. “Wes and Noah, you search downstairs for any medicine or food. Quinn, stay with me, and we’ll take the upstairs. We enter each house as a group and exit as a group. Eyes on your partner at all times.”

Wes and Noah agree, and Ryland lets them pass. Before I can slide through, he puts his hand on the door frame and leans in until we are eye to eye. “Quinn, do not leave my sight for any reason at any time. Do you understand me?”

The same electric green gaze that caught my attention earlier bores into me. An irrevocable perseverance radiating from him, and I must admit—it has me intimidated, and therefore, defensive.

“I know what to do,” I spit, ducking under his arm.

“I’m sure you do,” he mumbles, taking the lead again.

The house is dusty, but neat. Blankets lay folded on the back of the couch and chairs. Knickknacks line the fireplace mantle and a stack of magazines rests on the coffee table. Other than the banging of cupboards closing as Noah and Wes rummage through them, everything is normal.

We climb the stairs and Ryland points to a family picture on the wall. “Hopefully, we find most of the clothes we need here.”

I study the color-coordinated outfits and smiling faces in the portrait. The mom and dad sit next to one another on green grass with three young men kneeling behind them. They look so happy. I wonder if they’re all still alive and together, or if tragedies managed to get the better of them. If I was forced to guess, I’d say it’s most likely the latter.

We enter the first room, and Ryland goes directly to the closet. He shuffles through the clothes with his backpack at his feet, filling it with whatever he deems a necessity. I, on the other hand, am at a loss. If I were gathering clothes for River or me, there would be no problem, but I’m trying to help clothe four men I don’t know.

I open the first drawer and ask, “Do you guys need underwear or boxers or whatever?”

He looks at me from over his shoulder. “I’m not wearing another man’s underwear.”

“Are you sure? It is not like we can stop and buy you a brand-new designer set.”

A sly grin pulls at the side of his mouth. “I can manage just fine without underwear, love.”

My cheeks burn red hot, and I reply with a quick “ oh.” It’s all I can manage as my brain races with images of Ryland’s lack of underwear. He has me blushing like an idiot. I feel utterly incompetent… and did he call me love ?

I slam the drawer filled with boxers closed, brush off our exchange, and submerge myself in the task at hand. Opening drawers of t-shirts and jeans, I gather what I think will fit my male companions.

At the next couple of houses, the words between Ryland and I are all business. I ask a question, and he barks orders. The system works. We acquired several articles of clothing, multiple food items, and some essential medications. But we haven’t found what we truly need—the antibiotic that will heal Aiden.

It’s not until the final house that Ryland and I hit the jackpot. We’re inside a gigantic walk-in closet, rummaging through an endless array of practical men’s clothing. I’m on the floor going through drawer after drawer of t-shirts in all colors and styles, and Ryland sifts through the clothes on the hangers.

“Do you guys live in Stern?” I ask. The muscles in Ryland’s shoulders and back tense, and I pause for a moment, treading lightly. “I don’t understand why you didn’t go back to Giran or wherever you are from when you had the chance.”

Taking the beanie off his head, Ryland ruffles his greasy, brown waves which are in dire need of a shampoo, rinse, and repeat. He leans back against the wall and slides down until he sits on the floor. Pulling his overflowing backpack between his long, bent legs, he situates the items inside. There’s no trace of confidence or authority, only a sense of defeat and an unwillingness to talk about this topic.

“Sorry, it’s none of my business,” I say, returning to the contents of an open drawer. Asking questions was a stupid move on my part. Just because we’ve spent a couple of hours rummaging through houses doesn’t mean we’re friends, or even acquaintances, for that matter. I should have known better than to pry.

“We were on holiday, backpacking through a canyon.”

I whip around at the sound of Ryland’s voice. He concentrates on folding the clothes in front of him and continues speaking. “I had this brilliant idea that we should disconnect from the world. I convinced everyone to leave their phones in the car. We wandered from the trails in search of this waterfall I’d heard about. It took us hours to find, but it was worth it. We spent four days camped next to a blue oasis surrounded by red rocks, and it was incredible. By the time we found out about the evacuation, it was too late.”

My chest aches with empathy. I’m too aware of what it’s like to be stuck here when you should be somewhere else. I curse myself every day for trading safety and being with loved ones for an Afflicted war zone and despair. It’s a fate I wouldn’t wish upon another soul no matter how terrible their sins.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say.

He tugs the zipper to his backpack closed and stands. “No one should be here, Quinn. Not one damn person, Stern citizen or otherwise.”

He scoops up a pile of winter coats with one arm and towers over me. “That’s good enough. I’ll come back for the shoes.”

He extends his hand, and I accept his help getting to my feet. Hand engulfs mine in a firm and sure grip. It radiates a warmth that shoots up my arm. It’s surprisingly comforting, and a feeling I didn’t know I missed until this moment.

As I hold his hand, I admire the intricate tattoos woven together and crawling up his toned arm. Each symbol is a beautiful piece of art. From the anchor to the compass, I can’t help but feel they all have a story behind them. It’s like his body was the blank page and written on it are stories of friendship, self-discovery, and love. An entire life that existed outside of the world we now know.

“Hey, Ryland.”

He stops and turns with my hand still in his.

“I hope you all make it home.” I give his fingers a gentle squeeze before letting them go.

His eyes fill with gut-wrenching sadness as he says, “Unfortunately, it will never happen.”

There’s an undeniable truth behind his words that make my heart ache. He believes he will never make it home. Yet, I don’t understand why he bothers giving the others that hope. Just this morning, he was studying the bridge that is the only land crossing into Oscuros. It’s not like the outcome will change if he’s honest with his friends. In fact, they might agree with him, and together, they can come up with a more realistic plan that doesn’t rely on hoping a border crossing is still open.

I can’t recall ever meeting anyone as complex as Ryland.

We enter the kitchen where several items line the counter, mostly cases of water and non-perishable foods. Wes and Noah stand next to each other, holding multiple prescription bottles, carefully reading the labels.

“It doesn’t hurt to take it all, just toss them into a bag and River can determine if any of it will be useful,” Ryland says.

We’ve found so much in this one location. I feel like we have barely scratched the surface of what this house has to offer. I’m set on searching as much of it as I can before we leave. I open the pantry and pull out three boxes of mac and cheese and an unopened jar of peanut butter. Several cloth shopping bags hang from a hook on the back of the door, and I take them and stuff them full.

“I don’t want to walk back to the truck with our hands full. Even though it’s been quiet, we still need to be able to defend ourselves. Why don’t you both take a small load to the truck now?” Ryland says to Wes and Noah.

They agree, gathering cases of water and leaving the house.

“I’m going to grab the shoes. Will you be all right?” he asks.

“Go, I’m fine. I’m just going to pack this and make sure we’re taking everything we can.” I dismiss him with a flick of my wrist and listen to the stomping of his shoes as he climbs the stairs.

I finish organizing the bags and turn to the tiny hallway leading to the back of the house. I take no more than two steps when I notice the door to the basement. The smile that takes residence on my face is uncontrollable. Most people keep their hunting supplies safely locked beneath their house. With all the treasures we found here, I doubt I’ll turn up empty handed.

I return to the kitchen, grab one of the cloth bags from the counter, and take out my flashlight before making my way down the stairs into the pitch-black basement. My light hits three aisles of industrial-style shelving units. They’re filled with boxes of ammunition and an array of weapons—guns, crossbows, and knives.

“So predictable,” I say to myself, moving to the row farthest from the entrance. Boxes neatly display the description of their contents. Bullets. Never in my life did I think I would get giddy about bullets. I wasn’t excited about shooting a gun as a kid. They’re loud and the kickback from the discharge makes them hard to control. The power they hold at a moral level is something I never wanted. It’s too great of a responsibility. But Josh was adamant that we learn to handle a firearm. It was a lost cause to argue with him. He would lecture me all night long on the necessity of being able to protect myself from humans and animals. I learned about gun safety and how to aim and fire to appease him. Living in the woods, I always thought I was most likely to shoot a bear. Oh, how wrong I was.

River, on the other hand, was born wielding a weapon. She’s always seen beyond the devastation they can cause to enjoy the sport behind them. She’s not out shooting at animals for fun, but she knows how to hunt. Where I feel bile rise from the depths of my stomach at the thought of killing and skinning an animal, she can concentrate purely on the necessity of it. I don’t know how she does it, but thankfully, she’s able to gut a fish and pluck a bird. My protein intake would be nonexistent without her.

Placing the flashlight on a shelf, I open the bag and fill it with ammo. It has been a while since River and I have practiced shooting a gun. We haven’t wanted to waste bullets on a harmless target, but we know we can’t perfect our shots if we don’t. It’s vital that we stay comfortable with what a gun can do, and this is going to give us the opportunity to do that.

I move from shelf to shelf only taking what we can use when the sticky sound of rubber-soled shoes stops me. I turn my attention to the entrance of the aisle, dimly illuminated by the open door of the basement. A hefty figure cast in shadows stands at the end, blocking my way out. I freeze at the outline of the gun pointed at me.

“Look what we have here,” says a gruff voice, taking a step closer.

I slowly bend to set the bag of bullets on the floor as my free hand inches to the back of my jeans. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize anyone lived here,” I say, distracting him as I wrap my trembling fingers around my loaded weapon.

He steps into the beam of my abandoned flashlight. The lower half of his face is covered with a long scraggly beard, and his long hair is matted. His beady eyes examine me, and his crooked teeth gleam with a sinister smile. With no intention of slowing his pace, he closes in on me. Never have I wished for a run in with a Z the way I do now.

I yank my gun out and aim it at him. “Stop where you are, or I’ll shoot.”

“You’re going to put up a fight. I like that.”

The distance between us is dwindling, and I’m running out of time to decide on my best course of action. I’ve never shot anyone who wasn’t Afflicted. This is a human life, and even with my well-being at stake, I’m not sure if I can kill him. It’s different from a Z. I’m able to reason that I’m putting someone out of their misery. Nobody in their right mind would be happy knowing they’ve lost all consciousness and exist with nothing but a desire to eat people. A human being, even an evil one, is a whole other story.

The man snatches my gun from my hand and slides it on the floor behind him. Thick meaty fingers clasp over my mouth as he presses his massive body against me, sandwiching me between him and a brick wall. His gun presses to my jaw as he drags his nose over the other side of my face.

“You think you want my bullets, pretty little girl, but I have what you need.” He finishes by kissing my cheek. His breath is rancid, and his grip on me is painful. The mixture makes my stomach churn.

I know how I should respond, all the actions I should take, but they are a jumbled mess in my brain. I’m paralyzed. It’s not until the musty air of the basement meets the tears sliding down my face that I come to my senses. I struggle, but he firmly pins in place. My arm presses against my hunting knife in the pocket of my pants, and I scramble to open the button and slide my hand around the hilt. He buries his face into my neck, his beard scratching my skin. I fight harder to pull away, refusing to let this go any further. Without removing the knife from my pocket, I plunge it through the material of my pants and into his leg.

He jumps back holding the stab wound, and I try to maneuver past him, but he is enormous. He releases a groan and charges at me. I slam into the wall, knocking the air out my lungs. His bloody hand grasps my jaw as he spits, “You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy watching you cry and beg.”

He slams down his gun on a high shelf, out of my reach, and his hand moves between us as he yanks on his belt.

Tears blur my vision as I try to scream for help. Fear has my voice trapped inside my throat. Every movement of his hand and satisfied grunt as he comes closer to taking what he wants renders me useless. I surrender to my helplessness, squeeze my eyes shut, and will my brain to transport me to the happiest times in my life. I have to protect some part of me… any part of me.

A deafening bang rings in my ears, and my attacker falls upon me. I only pause for a second before my brain jumpstarts again. I push back as hard as I can, and he topples to the ground like a tree axed down in the middle of the woods.

Ryland stands silhouetted at the end of the row with his gun pointed at the man on the floor. His voice booms throughout the basement as he says, “Move, and I swear, I’ll put a bullet in your fucking head.” He turns his attention to me, scanning me from head to toe. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I whisper and reach for the bag on the floor.

“Quinn, come on. Let’s get the hell out of here,” he orders.

I’m obsessed with the bullets. My brain is stuck in a single thought as I sweep my arm over the shelf and fill the bag. We’ll never be able to survive without these. I must stop anyone who wishes us harm. We must protect each other, and we can’t do it without ammo.

“Quinn,” Ryland yells.

I stop and look at him. He stands over the man, who wails on the ground, holding onto his knee. Ryland extends his hand, and with a gentler tone says, “Quinn, let’s go, love.”

It takes a second for my body to follow the commands of my brain, but I eventually wrap my fingers around his. He pulls me over the wounded man and maneuvers me behind him as he walks backward. Not taking his eyes from his target, he gathers my gun from the floor before yanking me up the stairs. We rush to the kitchen as Wes and Noah come running in.

“We heard a gunshot,” Noah says between labored breaths.

“Grab everything and let’s get out of here,” Ryland says, taking the bag filled with boxes of bullets from my hand and giving me my gun .

The four of us run from the house to the truck, and the cold winter air nips at my face, bringing me back to reality. Everything happened so fast. I forgot the cardinal rule of survival—never go alone. Stupid mistake. I’d been careless. What would’ve happened to River if Ryland wasn’t there to rescue me? I can’t stand contemplating the possibility.

Once we reach the truck and are sheltered from plain view, Ryland turns to me. “What the hell was that? I told you not to leave my sight.”

Frustration, fear, and anger become rioting emotions within me. “You left to go upstairs!”

“That wasn’t an invitation for you to go roaming through the rest of the house by yourself!”

“I don’t need an invitation. I’m a big girl who’s fully capable of making my own decisions. I’m not in need of a dictator who controls my every move. I can handle myself!”

He releases a cynical laugh. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t your gun lying on the ground across the room and some sick fuck pinning you against a wall, or was it just my imagination?”

My body shakes, and my stomach flips at the thought. I bite my lips, blinking back tears. I hate how I allowed myself to become helpless, and if it weren’t for someone else, terrible things would be happening to me right now. Everything I was taught about defending myself had failed me. I failed me.

“Ry, that’s enough,” Noah says. “Quinn, why don’t you let me drive, sweetheart?” He holds his hand out.

I blankly stare at the creases in his palm. They’re cracked, the pads of his fingers calloused, and dirt is embedded under his fingernails. They’ve worked hard and look incapable of harming someone. His fingers appear skillful and gentle, and for inexplicable reasons, it makes me trust him.

“Okay.” I nod, giving him the keys.

My bones feel brittle like my heavy muscles and flesh will shatter them into splintered pieces. The step I must make to pull my body into the passenger seat appears higher than usual, and I don’t think I can lift my leg to do it. Thankfully, I don’t have to.

Wes patiently places his hands on my waist and lifts me into the truck. “Up you go.”

I slide across the bench seat toward Noah, allowing Wes to pull my side forward and crawl behind it. With the supplies packed in the bed of the truck and all of us accounted for, we pull onto the road.

For the longest time, I stare straight ahead. My mind is bombarded with thoughts. They mesh together like they are creating a sticky goop. In the end, it’s like I’m thinking of nothing at all.

I catch my image in the mirror extending from the truck door. Blood, that isn’t my own, is smeared across the lower half of my face, and the sight of it makes me want to gag. I rub my hand vigorously over the dried stain, but I can’t get it off. Tears well in my eyes as the dreadful reminder of what happened marks my skin.

A dark-gray hoodie presses against the side of my arm. Behind me, Ryland leans forward, presenting me with his dirty jacket. A faint spot where he used a bottle of water to dampen the material sits on the top. I hesitate at first, wanting to stand my ground and prove I don’t need his offering. It’s now my sole purpose in life to be strong, and the last thing I want is to admit my weakness. But I didn’t have anything under control. If he hadn’t come looking for me—it’s a thought I can’t finish. He’d been the reasonable one when I gave in to the panic. As much as I try to be a protector, it was me who needed saving today.

With a hushed thanks, I take his hoodie.

I owe him an apology and a word of gratitude, but it will have to come later. My heart isn’t in the mood for appreciation or forgiveness, and I’m not going to say something I don’t really mean. For now, I want to try to wash away the remnants of one of the worst days of my life.

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