Chapter 5
FIVE
JULIEN
The letter opener punctures the zombie’s eye socket with minimal resistance, like piercing overripe fruit. I twist, making sure the blade severs whatever keeps these things moving.
Dark fluid leaks down my wrist as the thing, a man in his sixties wearing what was once an expensive suit, shudders and goes still.
I step back, wiping the blade on my ruined suit pants. Another one down. How many more to go?
The church suddenly feels massive, filled with hungry dead waiting to join the party.
I kick the body to make sure it’s really dead.
Nothing. Good.
My shoulders ache from the constant tension of moving through this place, room by room, corner by corner. How long have we been clearing? An hour? Two? Time blurs when every second could be your last.
A nap would be nice.
“Clear in here,” I call out, keeping my voice low enough not to attract more of them, but loud enough for Cameron and Sienna to hear from the hallway.
They appear in the doorway, Cameron’s face pale beneath splattered blood. He’s holding the fire poker like a baseball bat, knuckles white around the metal. Sienna stands slightly behind him, her blonde hair turning pink.
They’ve been holding up better than I expected.
“That’s the last in this section,” I say. “Kitchen’s the priority now.”
Cameron nods. “We’ll handle it. What about you?”
“I’ll finish checking the rooms toward the other end, make sure we haven’t missed anything.” I roll my neck, trying to work out the kinks. “Then circle back.”
“Be careful.” My brother’s concern is genuine, his face softening. “Come on, Sienna.”
They move off down the corridor, shoulders close but not touching. I continue down the other side, controlling and passing empty rooms we’ve already cleared.
A Sunday school classroom. A small library. An office. The corridor narrows as I approach the bridal suite. Probably empty, but we can’t afford assumptions. I strain to hear over the pounding of my own heart.
Something rustles behind the door. A soft thump. Then silence.
Fuck.
Another one.
How did we miss it?
Slowly, I turn the handle, easing the door open just enough to slip inside. The room is dim, heavy curtains drawn across windows that face the green outside. A vanity mirror reflects fractured light, makeup scattered across its surface. A dress form stands empty, abandoned.
The rustling comes again, behind the folding screen in the corner. Chinese design, painted with delicate cherry blossoms that look obscene in this context. Something shifts behind it.
Sniffling?
I advance silently, letter opener raised, muscles coiled.
One quick strike. That’s all it takes.
I whip around the screen, arm already in motion—
A scream tears through the quiet. Not the guttural moan of the infected. Human. Female. Terrified.
Dakota.
My hand flies to her mouth, stopping the sound before it can fully form, dropping the letter opener to the carpet.
Her eyes, wide with fear and glistening, lock onto mine. I pin her against the wall, my body shielding hers as I listen for any sign that her scream attracted attention. But all I hear is her breath coming in panicked gasps through her nose and ghosting over my fingers.
“Quiet,” I whisper. “You want to get us both killed?”
She shakes her head, eyes still huge. I ease my palm from her mouth, registering several things at once.
First, she’s no longer wearing the ruined wedding dress.
Second, she’s barely wearing anything at all.
White lace cups her breasts, sheer enough that I can see the darker aureoles beneath. Matching underwear rides high on her hips, a small satin bow sitting just below her navel. Wedding night lingerie. The kind designed to be seen, then removed.
And third, her skin shows clean patches where blood has been wiped away, leaving visible bruises blooming red.
My eyes drift to an almost faded yellow bruise on her ribcage, older than anything that happened today. I reach toward it—
She crosses her arms over her chest, bumping back against the wall.
Fuck. Here I am, looming over a half-naked woman who just got left at the altar, staring at her body like some fucking pervert.
I pick up the letter opener and step back, giving her space. “Sorry. I was just—those bruises—”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“They got you pretty good, huh?” I gesture vaguely toward her arms. “Those hurt?”
“A bit.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I’m fine, though.”
She turns slightly, reaching for a silk robe draped over the folding screen. As she moves, I catch more marks along her side, fading but unmistakable.
“Just don’t tell anyone, okay?” She throws the robe on, cinching it tight at her waist. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”
Don’t make a fuss? Like she’s apologizing for being hurt. Like her pain is an inconvenience to others. Fucking—
“Why are you even here?” I demand, gesturing toward the door. “You were supposed to stay in the office. With the others.”
“I was changing.” Her fingers worry at the silk belt of her robe. “Obviously.”
“Alone? With those things out there?” The stupidity of it makes my blood boil. Does she want more of those marks? “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was careful.” Her voice sounds wrong. Thicker than usual. Like she’s been—
Crying.
The realization hits me with unexpected force. She’s been crying. Perfect, poised Dakota Levine has been hiding in here alone, falling apart where no one can see. I should be indifferent. Or better yet, satisfied.
Her family caused this mess. Her father is the reason Cameron nearly married a woman he didn’t love. The reason my brother might have been trapped for life, if not for Sienna.
“Your mother put you up to this?” I ask.
“Put me up to what?”
“This.” I point to where a bit of the bra peeks out. “The sexy bride routine. Was it her idea? Get Cameron into bed, maybe get pregnant, lock down the merger for good?”
Her face flushes dark red, anger replacing fear. “Screw you.”
“I’m just asking.” I turn away, giving her privacy to dress. “Seems like something you would orchestrate.”
“You don’t know anything about my mother or me.”
“I know enough.”
The rustling of fabric tells me she’s getting dressed. My brain unhelpfully supplies images to match the sounds, and I clench my jaw, focusing on the door, listening for threats.
“Just finish up so we can get back to the others.” I move to the bathroom door, checking inside. Empty. Clean sink. Droplets of water sit on the porcelain. She must have washed up a bit. I lean against the doorframe, still keeping my back to her. “You have a death wish?”
A harsh laugh answers me. “Would that be so terrible?”
I turn, finding her mostly dressed now. Dark jeans. White tank top halfway on, revealing a strip of bare midriff.
“Was it stupid? Probably.” She yanks the tank top down. “But I didn’t want to die in a half-torn wedding dress that we definitely can’t bring back and weren’t able to afford to begin with. Like you said, it didn’t fit me anyway.”
Her voice makes me pause. The bitterness. The resignation.
“I didn’t mean—” What did I mean? I barely remember saying anything about her dress. “It came out wrong.”
“It’s fine.” She wipes at her eyes. “Let me get the blanket, then we can get back. Amelia felt cold, so…”
I follow her gaze to the large comforter folded at the foot of a sofa. Suddenly, exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. Looks comfortable. Maybe a few minutes wouldn’t hurt.
“Can you watch the door for a minute?” I nod toward the entrance. “Just listen for any sounds, tell me if you hear anything.”
A loose strand of hair falls across her face. “You’re tired?”
“Problem?” I drop onto the couch, my body sinking into cushions that feel like clouds. Every muscle aches, tension knotted between my shoulders.
“No.” She grabs a wool jacket hanging on a nearby hook and drops to sit with her back against the door, knees drawn up to her chest.
Not looking at me, just staring straight ahead at nothing.
I close my eyes. The letter opener still clutched in my hand digs into my palm, a reminder that we’re not safe. That I need to stay alert.
My breathing slows.
Just one minute…
Music filters through darkness. Soft, melodic. A woman’s voice humming a familiar melody I can’t place. My eyes snap open to find the room has darkened, shadows stretching across the walls.
What the…
Dakota sits exactly where she was, back still against the door, humming quietly to herself. A song that tugs at some forgotten memory.
“You should be listening,” I say, my voice rough with sleep, “not making noise.”
She meets my eyes, hers still a bit red-rimmed. “Multi-tasking.”
I rub my eyes. Fuck. I don’t sleep. Ever. At least with another person in the room and danger right outside the walls. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked like you needed it.”
“How long was I out?”
She shrugs, the jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “Been maybe thirty minutes or so.”
“Thirty—” I run a hand over my face, feeling the grit of dried sweat and blood. “Cameron and Sienna must be wondering where I am.”
“No zombies knocked. That’s something.”
Her attempt at humor catches me off guard. A woman who just killed infected with a candlestick, sitting guard while I slept, still able to find something resembling a joke.
She stands up and walks over to me, reaching for the comforter.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She freezes. “What?”
“Are you okay?” I repeat. “After what happened in the chapel.”
Her fingers twist in the fabric. “Everything’s fine.”
“You killed those things. Is that why you were crying?”
“I—” She shrugs. “They would’ve killed us.”
A non-answer. She’s good at those.
I grab her wrist, drawing her closer so I can see her eyes. Those strange blue-gray eyes, still glistening with unshed tears, that somehow manage to look both calm and turbulent at the same time. Like the surface of the ocean before a storm breaks—deceptively still, but churning underneath.
A tremble runs through her body, so subtle I’d miss it if I weren’t holding her. She blinks rapidly, gaze dropping to where my fingers circle her skin before darting back up to meet mine.
“Are you okay?” I hold her gaze.
She wrenches free, something hardening in her expression. “You really expect me to tell the guy who got blackmailed by my father if I’m okay? What are you going to do? Comfort me? Hug me?”
I tried.
I clench my teeth. “Forget it.”
“Gladly.” She snatches the blanket and strides to the door, yanking it open, only to walk straight into Sienna, who was apparently about to enter.
“Shit! Sorry.” Sienna stumbles back, nearly dropping the cleaver in her hand. Fresh blood drips from its blade onto the carpet. “I didn’t—”
“No, my fault.” Dakota clutches the blanket like a shield. “I wasn’t looking.”
“We cleared the kitchen.” Sienna puts on a grim smile. “Found some better tools for the job, too. “
“You okay in here?” Cameron appears behind Sienna, surprise crossing his features. “Dakota?”
“Just heading back.” She nods once, then slips past them. “Amelia needs this blanket.”
They watch her go, then Cameron turns to me with raised eyebrows. “Did we interrupt?”
I strain upright, muscles protesting the movement. “Any surprises?”
“Nope.” Sienna swings the cleaver experimentally. “We came to get you.”
“What was she doing here alone?” Cameron asks.
“Changing clothes,” I say. “Getting a blanket for her sister.”
“Right.” Sienna’s tone suggests she doesn’t entirely believe that’s all it was. “Well, we found canned goods, bottled water, and those little sandwich things for the reception.”
“Canapés,” Cameron supplies.
“Those.” She shrugs. “They’re sealed. Should be safe.”
“Anything else?” I move past her into the hallway.
“Matches. First aid kit under the sink.” Cameron stops me by my shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“It’s the apocalypse. Nothing’s okay.”
But for a moment, gazing into Dakota’s eyes, I almost forgot that.