Chapter 7
SEVEN
CROSS
Our usual schedule is to be up at the crack of dawn to get our dailies done before focusing on bigger projects around the compound. The sole exception occurs the morning after we’ve let our wild sides out to run in the mountainside woods.
Thank fuck I’m not required to get up and get moving this morning.
Finneas’s arrival late last night, and all the other bullshit that’d gone down during our most sacred of rituals has turned this entire compound into a powder keg.
I want no part of it. The very walls of the building vibrate with explosive energy, the likes of which I can’t remember ever feeling before.
But maybe I’m lying to myself. Maybe this has been coming for a while. Trying to contain my chaotic thoughts, I bring my hands to my head and rake my fingers over my scalp. It’s an odd, creeping feeling that has sunken into my bones that I just can’t seem to shake.
I woke up this morning, legs tangled up in the bedding. Whatever I’d been doing in the early hours of the morning had been fitful, if it could even be called sleep at all. I’d been plagued by a constant nightmare from the second my eyes closed until they popped open a few minutes ago.
Malakai lies in the bunk beside mine, facing the wall.
I have no doubt that a big part of the reason for my shit sleep is worry.
It’s some kind of miracle he’s alive after the hit to the head he sustained.
Whoever hurt him meant to get the job done.
Hayze and I spent a lot of time attempting to clean the wound so I could stitch it.
It had to have hurt like hell. I swallow hard, remembering how difficult it’d been to focus.
I watch his broad, muscular back for at least a minute as he breathes before finally sitting up and rubbing my tired eyes.
The amount of force needed to split someone’s head open like that is significant.
I still want to know what weapon was used, but even more so, how the fuck it’d happened in the first place?
And who has gone completely off their rocker?
I sigh, glancing over my shoulder. The entire room is mostly dark, the barest amount of light filtering in through the long window at the side of the room.
Last night’s storm seems to have passed, but only the literal one.
The worst of the uproar is yet to come, of that I’m certain.
My brows draw together. Where the fuck is Arrow? His bed is rumpled, as if he were once in it, but it’s very obviously empty now. I scan the cavernous room, eyes flicking from one inhabitant to the next. He’s the only one unaccounted for.
At the moan that rolls from Malakai, my head swivels, attention focusing on his prone form, blond tresses falling over his face.
On one hand, his long hair hides the damage done, but on the other, it’d made my job really difficult.
I can’t believe I had to sew his fucking hard head closed.
It’d taken six stitches to hold the skin shut.
Air rushes from my lungs in a whoosh as he groans aloud.
I swing my legs over the side of the mattress, then slip across the space between our beds. “Kai,” I whisper, keeping my voice low as I run my palm over his bicep, gently squeezing when I reach his forearm. “You okay?”
His exhale is sharp as he turns to look over his shoulder, dark eyes peering up at me. The tired grooves carved into his face tell me just how bad off he is.
I clench my teeth, sucking air through them.
“I think we need to ask my father for more of the meds.” He grunts in response, tearing his pain-filled gaze from me.
It’d felt good that my father had entrusted me with helping Mal, but it also left me very curious as to what’d gone on during the time the Collective had been sequestered if he returned so distracted that he hadn’t bothered to check my work.
He’d also only set out a single dose of acetaminophen for Malakai.
It’s surely worn off long ago. I clear my throat, propping my hands on my hips as I lean forward in an attempt to get his attention.
“I think if you don’t want them to chop that hair, we should put it up so that no one gets on you about cutting it again. ”
He pushes to sit, tucking a few stray locks behind his ears. His lip curls before he snarls “Whatever” under his breath.
I heave out a sigh. “Don’t be a stubborn asshole about it.”
He turns, narrowing his eyes, but reaches for something on his nightstand. A hair band. I smirk inwardly as he begins to arrange his hair into some semblance of order. He knows I’m fuckin’ right.
A moment later, his sharp exhale is followed by a hissed, “Motherfucker,” before biting back a longer string of curses. His hands have stopped moving, but there’s a faint quake to them.
Throat dry, I grasp his chin with my fingers, looking into those eyes that are as dark as obsidian in the dim light. He blinks, then squeezes them shut at the same time he jerks his head to the side to free himself of my hold. I rasp, “Need some help?”
His lips pinch before he eyes me and growls, “Fuck off.”
My brow arches in response, but then I take in the way his face has paled, and I motion to him to give me the hair tie.
Reluctantly—I don’t know what it costs him to do it without argument—he hands it over, and I circle around to the other side of his bed to stand behind him.
Slowly and very carefully, I part the long blond waves so I can get a better look at my handiwork.
Fortunately, I see nothing amiss. “It looks okay. I think there’s probably just some hair caught in the stitches and you tugged at them.
” I rest a hand on his shoulder. “Want me to try putting it up?”
He huffs out a breath without saying anything, but a moment later, gives the barest nod. I take my time gathering his hair and manage to tie it in a location that I hope doesn’t put a strain on the skin surrounding the fresh stitches. “There. I think that’ll work.”
He exhales hard, then silently nods again, pointing at Arrow’s empty bed, he asks, “Where’s he gotten off to?”
“Dunno. I had the same question.” His eyes search mine, almost as if he’s probing for answers he believes I know but am hiding.
I’m not. But if I had to guess, I think I’d be right in saying it has something to do with Twenty-Thr— Delilah.
Our friend’s comment last night about returning to see her later hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Not by me, anyway. Mal could have easily missed it, though, as he was slung over my shoulder and half out of his head.
Just then, the bedroom door opens with a quiet snick and the man in question enters. “Hey,” he says, voice low, “the Collective wants to see the four of us in the gathering room in ten minutes.”
From the other end of the large area, Hayze grumbles, “Fuck,” before sitting straight up and scrambling from his bed. “Where have you been?”
Arrow’s teeth clench, his gaze skirting over to the opposite side of the room where Rafe, Gannon, Dragan, and Evren all remain asleep. “You know where I was. But then my father stopped me before I could get back up here.”
“What’d he want?” Malakai whispers, raising a brow.
“Mostly just to tell me to be prepared. I don’t know what that fucking means. Then he sent me up to get you.” He waits a beat, wincing. “I’m nervous.”
I groan. “Great. Okay. Sounds like fun first thing this morning.”
Hayze exhales audibly through his nostrils. “Yep. Let’s get moving.”
I wish we had time to ask Arrow how Delilah is, but it’ll be our hides if we show up late after a summons from Finneas. And when the other half of the room begins to rouse, I know for fucking sure Arrow’s lips would be sealed, anyway.
The early spring temperatures outside haven’t risen enough for it to be anything other than chilly within the main building of the compound at this hour.
As Hayze leads the way into the gathering room, Arrow following directly behind him, I pause on the threshold, glancing over my shoulder.
Malakai has yet to give up on wearing that beat-up leather jacket of his.
Every year, he fights putting it away for the season.
That thing is like a part of his whole persona and has been ever since he barged into our lives.
He’s rarely without it on chilly mornings like this one.
I chew on my cheek as I make a mental note that my father really should have a look at his head wound.
He’s moving slowly this morning, and no matter that I think I did a pretty fucking good job, two sets of eyes on it are better than one.
We hurriedly sit in the chairs lined up facing Finneas. He’s taken his usual place in front of the stone fireplace, arms crossed, the powerful stance important after his absence, I suppose. He doesn’t say a single word, simply stares coldly at us.
Fuck me. I haven’t even had breakfast yet. My stomach gives an angry rumble of agreement. From the looks of it, food and anything else we might have on our agenda are on hold until we finish up with whatever Finneas feels necessary to discuss at this early hour.
Suppressing any sign that I’ve got serious doubts and plenty of questions as to what kept him away, I choose instead to mull it over internally.
I know better than to give the impression that my trust in our leadership is shaken.
If Finneas were to catch wind of my true thoughts, my misgivings would be considered the ultimate betrayal, and I’d pay for it.
I’d be lucky if the correction weren’t lethal.
Lashings are bad, but I know from experience that worse has happened within the walls of this compound.
I glance up as the remainder of the Collective file in and take their seats. I’m insanely curious to know their thoughts, not to mention what went on in my father’s room last night after they’d shut themselves in there with Finneas.