Chapter 10 Is This Real Life?
TEN
IS THIS REAL LIFE?
LYLA
Ouch.
Everything hurts. My mind drags, thick and slow, wrapped in fog. Pain pulses—constant, heavy, like my body’s been fed through a grinder. Muscles scream. Bones ache. Each breath stabs deep.
I blink against the grit in my eyes, my vision swimming as the world slowly sharpens. Timber walls surround me. Smoke clings to the air. Dust drifts through the light slipping in from a narrow window.
Not the compound. Not hell.
The safe house.
But how did I get here?
The second I move, pain rips through my side like a serrated blade. A choked groan slips past my lips, as my body reminds me in no uncertain terms that I am very much alive, but barely. I instinctively reach for the wound, but there’s a metallic clink that stops me.
There’s a handcuff gripping my wrist, the other end locked around the iron frame of the bed.
“Seriously?” I mutter, my throat dry like I’ve chain-smoked since birth.
A voice cuts through the stillness, smooth and almost amused. “Well, hello, beautiful.”
My head snaps toward it. Pain explodes up my spine. I wince, eyes clenching shut as the room spins.
When my eyes finally focus, I see a woman lounging in a rocking chair like she owns the place—or maybe the whole damn world.
Her boots rest on the bed frame, one hand holding a romance novel with a shirtless pirate on the cover, the other draped lazily over her knee.
Her chocolate-brown eyes meet mine, sharp and amused.
She’s gorgeous. Short, almost buzzed curls frame high cheekbones. A small hoop nose ring and matching earrings gleam against her dark skin. She looks like she could kill a man and then read a book over his corpse. I like her already.
Crap.
“Rough night?” she asks, smile never wavering.
I don’t answer. Too busy taking her in—and ignoring the fact that I’m cuffed to a damn bed like a lunatic.
She’s dressed in standard apocalypse chic—fitted maroon shirt, black jeans, boots.
But what really catches my eye is the black EMT jacket slung over her chair.
The patch on the sleeve glints in the low light.
My jaw tightens as my free hand balls into a fist. “Not to sound ungrateful for the whole keeping-me-alive thing,” I rasp, “but who the hell are you?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just slides a worn-looking receipt into her book, shuts it, and leans back, still watching me.
I take in my surroundings again, the faint beeping and the tubes running from my arm. I’m hooked up to some kind of medical rig—a crude setup, IV fluids and a monitor hooked to a small gas generator, all carefully arranged to keep my heart ticking.
“I’m Trisha,” she says at last. “Friends call me Trish. I’m the one who dragged your ass back from death’s door.”
I huff a weak breath, shifting against the mattress, wincing as my side protests the movement. Yeah, no shit. “I can see that,” I grunt. “But who the hell are you?”
Her head tilts, assessing, before finally saying, “I’m part of the group you saved back at the prison.”
My heart kicks. I jerk up—only for the cuff to snap me back down with a dull clank. A fresh bolt of pain shoots through my ribs, but I don’t care. “The others,” I rasp. “Are they okay? Did they all make it out?”
Trish leans back, her smirk softening into something almost reassuring. “Yes, thanks in large part to you.”
A pause. Then—
“And Joanie.”
Tension eases in my chest—just a fraction.
She reaches for a steaming mug on the nightstand. My attention snaps to it. The rich, bitter scent hits, and my stomach growls.
I nod toward the mug, raising a brow. “I was saving that, you know.”
Trish pauses midsip, one brow lifting in a perfect mix of challenge and amusement. “Payment. For my excellent medical services.”
She takes a long gulp, hands cradling the mug.
“Besides, I only stole a little. Instant coffee’s not exactly gourmet. Makes me miss the real stuff.” Her eyes flick back to mine, still glinting with mischief. “But if you want a cup, I can make one for you, Mizz . . . ?”
“Lyla. Lyla Matthews.”
She repeats it under her breath, testing the sound, then leans back, fingers tapping the chair’s arm. “See? Now we’re friends.”
I take a moment to really look her over.
Trish is fit, not bodybuilder fit, but the kind of fit that screams efficiency.
She looks like the type who could run a 5K at sunrise, whip up breakfast from scratch, and knock out half of her to-be-read list before even starting her day.
Lean muscle frames her compact build, her buzzed hair drawing attention to her sharp jawline and those unnervingly large brown eyes.
Even sitting, I can tell she’s shorter than me by at least four inches. That thought sparks a brief moment of confidence. If it came to a fight, I could take her.
Probably.
Maybe.
Trish tilts her head, studying me with a mix of curiosity and amusement, her lips twitching like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“If you’re wondering if you could take me in a fight I have to warn you that I may be small, but I’m mighty.
Besides, you wouldn’t stand a chance in the condition you’re in. ”
She may have a point there. So instead of confirming her suspicions, I burrow further into my pillow. “What happened?”
Her gaze grows distant, thoughtful, as she rocks slowly, taking another sip.
“Jacob and Barbara dragged you out of that hellhole of a prison,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind.
“You were bleeding like a stuck pig, but they got you to my van in time. I patched you up—basic emergency procedures for a blood transfusion and fluids, plus clamping and stitching the wound on your side. Lucky for you, Jacob’s O negative. Universal donor.”
She pauses, a small smile tugging at her lips. “And you’ve had a lot of visits from a certain mouthy teenager.”
Relief and joy charge through my body. Joanie must be okay if she is visiting me all the time.
Trish nods, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh yeah. She’s been here every day. Got a mouth on her, that one. Hasn’t stopped talking to you in hopes that her voice will magically wake you up.”
I can’t help the faint smile that tugs at my lips. Joanie’s tough, scrappy, and loyal in the way only someone with something to prove can be. She’s rough around the edges, sure, but she’s got heart.
But then my gaze shifts downward, landing on the cuff locked tight around my wrist. The metal is cool against my skin, a stark reminder of where I am—and what they think of me. My grin fades as I glance at Trish, raising an eyebrow. “Why am I handcuffed to the bed?”
Trish chuckles. “That’s all Jacob.” Her tone carries a mix of exasperation and understanding. “Can’t say I necessarily agree, but he made a good point.”
She tilts her head, her gaze curious. “See, we don’t really know you. Not yet.”
I clench my jaw, irritation flaring in my chest. “I saved all those people,” I snap.
Trish leans forward, dropping her feet to the floor, elbows resting on her knees.
Her demeanor shifts, her eyes sharpening, but there’s no hostility—just a careful, considering calm.
“You were on a suicide mission, Lyla. And we don’t take kindly to ‘risk takers.’ ” She raises her fingers, throwing air quotes around the phrase.
“Don’t get me wrong—I think what you did was badass. But I also see Jacob’s point.”
Whoever this Jacob is, I swear to God, I’m going to knee him in the groin so hard his balls will pop out his ass. And who the hell does this woman think she is? I force my voice to stay even. “And what’s his point?”
Trish doesn’t flinch. “If you’re so careless with your own life, how careful are you with others?”
The question lands like a punch to the ribs, sharp, direct, impossible to ignore. “I didn’t think saving people was something to question.”
Trish tilts her head, unimpressed. “Is that why you got on that bus? Just to save people? Or were you using them for your own agenda?” She shifts, folding her arms. “Because from what I heard, you could have left with the rest of the group. Instead, you stayed behind to ‘take care of something.’ It nearly cost Barbara, Jessica, and Jacob their lives to pull you out.”
Welp, there it is.
Guilt.
Right on top of the simmering anger already bubbling in my gut.
I don’t need this. I don’t need a damn lecture from someone who wasn’t even there.
I didn’t go into that jail with the plan of sacrificing anyone just to get my revenge.
But yeah, I can see how it might not look great from the outside, considering the shitshow Joanie and I stirred up.
I force myself to breathe. “I didn’t ask them to come back for me.”
Trish leans forward, her stare sharp, unyielding. It’s the kind of look that makes it clear she’s not buying my bullshit. “No. But we don’t leave people behind. Or give up on them. Even when it’s clear they’re dead set on sacrificing themselves—and damning everyone else who gets in their way.”
My mind flashes to Mark. His face, the moment his life bled out in front of me. The weight of his body in my arms, the finality of it.
Something inside me twists, sharp and relentless.
I did the same thing with him, didn’t I? Screw the consequences. As long as I got to kill da Vinci, nothing else mattered. Except it wasn’t da Vinci who died.
And now?
Did I just do it again?
My stomach churns. Was I so blinded by revenge that I didn’t consider the fallout? The fact that someone might come back for me?
Yes, I killed him this time. But at what cost?
Would it have been worth it if the others had died trying to escape—while I wasn’t even there to help them?
I chose him over them.
Again.
My throat tightens. The words I want to say, the defense, the excuses, die before they can form. Because what if she’s right?
I press my lips together, my gaze dropping to the rough wooden floor, suddenly unable to meet Trish’s eyes.