Chapter 9 #2
My heart sinks that bit deeper.
Muscle memory betrays me.
My finger lifts from the torch—and almost, almost taps against the hard plastic of it. As if to use the code. As if Bee is still with me. Right behind me.
A ball lodges in my throat.
I swallow it back—but it doesn’t disperse. It only thickens, like it’s brewing a sob.
I force my mouth into a flat line, my insides solidifying, and I pause.
Like the image of the baby car seats and dog harness, I shove all thoughts of her out of my mind.
I have to.
I can’t let myself crack.
Not right now, not in the middle of a ruined city.
Not when Rust could be hunting me.
And not when my lungs are so constricted, I can’t draw more than a shallow breath.
I need to prioritise my pain and problems.
My lungs can’t afford a sob.
Jaw set, I push onwards, the light gently guiding me towards the counter.
Racks of merchandise are toppled all over the dusty registers. Dried leaves skitter along the counter. And with the breeze whistling into the shop, it’s all too fucking eerie, and I shudder.
I feel alone.
Starkly.
No one having my back, no one on lookout, no one to shield me.
It’s just me.
It’s a vulnerable feeling.
And it hesitates me as the light lands on the counter hinges. A lifting counter.
I don’t love the idea of going back there myself. And I don’t have a gun, or even a knife.
But the breaths hitching my shoulders are only going down as far as my throat now, and they jolt me.
If I don’t want to pass out, I need that inhaler.
Dread slows me down as I advance on the lifting counter. My steps avoid the packaging strewn over the linoleum.
But I’m not quiet enough.
The weight of my backpack shifts against the small of my spine; my breaths are too sharp and hitched and erratic; the rain jacket rustles as I crouch down to look under the counter—and aim the torchlight into the shadows.
But the light doesn’t reach further than the first row of shelves. The shelves are mostly empty. Padded with dust, most of the medication gone.
Looted already.
But I can’t turn around, not without certainty.
I shift forward, my hand coming down flat on the linoleum floor.
Then a sharp breath spears through me.
The breeze rustles like a winter chill, prickling the hair on the back of my neck—and I freeze.
Something feels off.
I throw my gaze around the darkness beyond the counter, but nothing is moving back there, no shadows lurking.
I feel something—but what, I don’t know.
Just something off enough to prickle my flesh and send a surge of panic through me.
I lift my chin and the torchlight with it.
The strips of fluorescent lightbulbs stroke across the ceiling.
I drag the light down the wall, where a shelf is toppled over, leaning on another that is bolted to the floor.
No one is there.
But then the air shifts around me, the faintest brush of movement—
I swerve around so fast that I fall onto my ass. The impact jolts pain up my spine.
But not a sound escapes me.
Not a breath, not a grunt, not a shout.
Because a hand is suddenly firm against my mouth, silencing me.
My eyelids spring open.
The fright has me rigid on the floor, frozen, and seconds pass before I realise what I’m staring at.
A set of familiar green eyes.
Samick is crouched right in front of me, his cold hand gripping my jaw, palm flat against my mouth to stop my shout.
Not Rust.
Not a stranger.
Samick.
I choke on a muffled cry.
Tears flood my eyes quicker than he snuck up on me, and for a beat, he just frowns at me.
Like I’m some sort of messy puzzle to be analysed.
My chest jolts with a second hard breath that feels as comfortable as a hiccup.
That frown smoothens between his brows.
Slightly, he tilts his head as if to consider me better, and strands of his black-stained hair brush over his eyes.
I hate it.
I hate that, at the sight of him, a burst of relief is a tornado in my chest.
I hate that a breath utters out of me and onto the cold familiarity of his palm; like I can breathe again just by looking at him, just by him being here.
I’m not alone anymore.
Every part of me aches to lunge at him, to strike at him, to rip his fucking eyes out, to lock my arms around his neck—and refuse to let go of my life vest in the ocean.
I hate that, right now, staring into those icy eyes, I realise just how safe I feel around him.
My hand slaps onto his wrist, to hold, to grip, to dig my nails into his marble flesh—
But his wrist is wet.
I cut my gaze to the hem of the leather sleeve.
Black, inky, and glistening.
I peel my hand away and bring it into the angled wispy light. My fingers are wet with blood.
Fae blood.
Rust’s.
The relief defeats me.
My face twists against his hand.
The sobs rise up. And like a pathetic child, I sit here on the soft floor, folding into myself, jerking with the cries I try to swallow down.
Samick’s grip softens.
His fingers become whispers against my cheeks until they are gone, and he brings his forearm to rest on his knee.
He waits.
He waits out my restrained sobs.
He watches me cry.
Crouched there in front of me, in the wisps of faint torchlight dancing over the marble sheen of his features, blood staining his cheek and hair and his leathers, he pauses—
And he doesn’t ask why I’m breaking down.
Not even as minutes pass and I press my hand to my chest as I try to catch my breath.
Only then does he move.
He reaches into a pocket, then draws out my inhaler.
I snatch it from him, my sobs heaving through me. And I guzzle in that medicated air.
Still, he says nothing.
Not as he slips the inhaler back into his pocket when my breaths have eased and my lungs have softened, and the tears have stopped rushing down my cheeks.
Blood-stained hair brushing over his furrowed brow, Samick murmurs faintly, “Tesni.”