Chapter 31
“Do you sleep?” a voice asked me.
I brushed my hair off of my sweaty face as I thanked a girl in an apron who had just helped me remove another body, the soul gone. I didn’t know what bell we were at. It was definitely approaching morning bells.
“Not lately,” I muttered, my feet past aching as I pulled a scarf down around my neck. We had all taken to wearing them as the droves of patients didn’t relent. No one in white even gave me a second glance. Like the Force, they were just relieved to have another hand, another person to rely on.
It had been three days, or was it four? Time had become distorted with the state of Haven.
Nights had passed since I had left Tristian in his room.
We both seemed determined to pretend it hadn’t occurred, as if the things we had shared were sacred to that night.
I hadn’t seen him alone to know how far the denial would stretch.
I had found myself before his door again after too many losses in the Ward, but no one answered.
I didn’t know if he slept within or was out covering extra patrols.
Maybe my abrupt departure had been too much.
That was until five bells ago, or was it seven? I pushed the memories of his hands on me away, unable to revisit them here.
I didn’t know if that was what drove me or if it was something else entirely, but if I wasn’t on patrol or in the closet with Bretta, I was here.
I had brought a person with a black band here who I had found unconscious on patrol.
I had been met with shouts, coughs, and tears everywhere.
Everyone in white had half their faces concealed.
They were at war. Bodies lay in the curtained halls.
Assistants crouched on the ground next to them.
Some bodies lay abandoned. I crouched down to check a body and found myself here every night since, an apron tied over my patrol uniform—even as exhaustion licked at my insides, my limbs heavy, my bones strained under the weight of holding me upright.
Everything felt sluggish. An ache had set in behind my eyes.
Yet I didn’t stop, couldn’t. I refused to acknowledge why.
The only positive had been Daisy’s release yesterday morning.
She wasn’t completely better, but she was improving.
Another little flower would survive. Her mother was left behind though. She had it.
Owen pulled down his scarf. “I know you won’t listen, Sasha, but you have to take care of yourself. Your luck will run out one of these days.”
“I’ve been chasing the end of my luck since I came here, Owen. I promise you it won’t come,” I said, leaning against the wall for just a moment. I closed my eyes. “How many today?”
“I haven’t checked. I’ve been too busy.” I opened my eyes, finding him. He leaned against the opposite wall. A girl in an apron slept curled up on the floor some ten feet from us. “Kumar told me to tell you to go back to your unit.”
I hadn’t seen Kumar. I knew he was somewhere, but our paths hadn’t crossed. “Is he healthy?”
“He’s okay,” Owen told me. “For now.”
“Does he have it?” My heart leaped into my throat, but even that took effort as my body begged me for rest.
“Yes. He’s been hiding it,” Owen said heavily.
“Have you run an exam?”
Owen cast me a knowing look. “He’s the only person I know more stubborn than you when it comes to their own well-being.”
“You’re watching him though?”
Owen sighed. “Yes, it seems my fate is to only care for people incapable of caring for themselves. Speaking of which, Ingrid told me to tell you you’re needed back at your living quarters. The entire unit is.”
Had Tristian figured something out? He hadn’t said a word last night. We hadn’t said anything…
“When did she say that?”
“A bell ago.”
“I’ve been checking on her. You don’t have to take that on.”
Owen pushed off the wall, not meeting my eyes. “I know but I…I wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
My brows raised. “You wanted to make sure Bretta is okay?”
“It’s not Bretta I’ve been checking on.”
“Ingrid?” Surprise burst through the exhaustion.
“Dr. Allard, there’s another,” someone in an apron interrupted. “He’s tanking. They want to know about care? He’s from Sanitation.”
Owen chanced one last glance at me as he pulled up his scarf. “Get back to your unit, Death’s Angel. We have this.” It sounded almost like a smile might be hidden behind his scarf. I left the Ward.
I entered the living quarters dressed to find what felt like an unfamiliar sight as of late. All of Unit Seven crowded around the sofas and chairs, holding steaming cups. Rumi sat without one, her shirt unbuttoned and untucked, her braid a mess.
I hadn’t seen much of Rumi since the illness started; all her free moments were spent covering for Levi and Damien.
Every night, she volunteered for the witching hour.
The shift most dreaded had become almost coveted.
Curfew made the tunnels quiet. Maybe that was why Patrick had stopped volunteering for them.
Did he hate the quiet—or was he able to sleep knowing the rest of Haven did as well?
I didn’t know. He would accompany Rumi every few nights, but it wasn’t like before.
“Shit night?” Damien asked her and Patrick, who sat beside Rumi, his eyes closed, his head on her shoulder, a forgotten cup in his hands. I approached the table, grabbing a cup. I mouthed thanks in Levi’s direction.
I took the last open seat next to Tristian, careful not to brush against him.
Which was almost impossible as Isla sat cross-legged on his other side, her hair wet.
Her legs spilled onto Damien next to her.
He sat wedged in the corner, his black curls askew.
For a moment I wished I could freeze time.
I wanted us all to stay right here as we were—healthy, whole. That was the problem with caring.
“Yeah, the Ward is at capacity. They turned away a kid,” Rumi told us. “The dad wasn’t having it. Lost it. I didn’t know how to break it up. He was right; it wasn’t fair. It was a mess until Sasha showed up.”
I had taken the kid in, ignoring everyone’s screams.
“You were in the Ward again?” Levi asked.
“Yes.”
“Is that why you ran off, Rums?” Patrick asked her, his eyes still closed.
“I needed a minute. I didn’t want to follow orders. The kid should have been seen without a fight.”
Patrick lifted his head, peering at Damien. “Needless to say, your night was better.”
Damien blushed as Isla nudged him with her knee. “Boyfriend.”
“Yeah, well, my night could have been better,” Damien said. “Noah had to wake at the third bell, something with his unit.”
“Maybe that’s why Peterson was so pissed last night,” Patrick mused.
Rumi shook her head. “He was pissed because he took a right hook in front of Sanitation, and it cracked his face shield; the glass cut his face.” Patrick lifted his head from her shoulder completely, his brows high.
“It was on his report. Saw it when I filed ours. He glued the cut shut, too afraid to go to the Ward. Looks terrible.”
“I can look at it,” I told the room, pushing away concerns about my dwindling supplies for our next mission—if it ever came.
“I’ll tell Noah tonight. Also not to be the bearer of bad news, but sadly, Jaxhole didn’t die. He lives.” Damien sighed heavily, news I already knew. “He is being released today.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Isla said. Tristian adjusted himself next to me.
“Levi is fine. We don’t need Jaxhole,” Patrick said.
“His score probably dropped too low anyway,” Damien claimed, handing Isla his empty cup.
She leaned forward. Tristian shifted toward me, giving Isla room as she placed the cup on the table.
I was instantly too warm; every place Tristian’s body touched mine sent me reeling back to the middle of the night. Please, I need you.
“The scores don’t matter right now. No one outside the Ward can get access to the charts. Even Command,” Rumi said.
Tristian rested his coffee on his thigh, close to me, the edge of his hand barely grazing my leg. I shivered against the lightest of touches.
“How was your night, Sasha?” someone asked me. “You look tired.”
I was tired. An assistant had told me someone from the Force needed me.
I had rushed to the entrance, only to find Tristian, his helmet tucked under his arm, waiting for me.
His shoulders sagged when he saw me. He hadn’t said a word as he turned, gesturing me to follow wordlessly.
My questions of what was wrong went unanswered.
He had pushed open a door to a room with nothing but a desk within and pulled me into it.
His helmet had clattered to the ground, my weapons and pieces of our clothes following.
I need you, his gaze distraught and haunted as his mouth only left mine to attend to other bits of my skin, anything he could expose, as we both stayed half-clothed.
Please, I need you. I had nodded, willing to give him anything to drive away the pain.
My pants and underwear dangled from my left foot as Tristian took me against a wall.
Nothing gentle about it. He sheathed himself in one thrust. His desperation consumed us both, his hands and mouth everywhere.
A claiming. I met it, wanted it. His teeth scraped across my skin, marking it, encouraged by my desperate pleas for more.
He shifted us, ripping my shirt away before bending me over the forgotten desk, pushing old papers from it before plunging into me to the hilt, his name on my lips as I begged. Harder. More.
Until he unleashed himself fully. Slamming into me, his hand woven into my hair. The pressure of the table against my breast and clit coupled with the force behind me sent me free-falling. My release wrecked me.