Chapter 64
ONE WAY OUT
Someone’s running down the hall—no, a lot of someones. The catastrophe of sound is violent enough to cut through concrete. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the building’s on fire. But if that were the case, I’d hope someone would have the decency to swing by and let me know.
As if on cue, Colt shoulders through my door.
Not his usual lazy entrance. He slams it shut behind him, back braced against the frame like he’s holding something out. His chest heaves, pupils dilated. Sweat darkens the edges of his hair. For a half-second, I question if he’s bleeding.
“Colt?”
He drops a clipboard onto the desk harder than he needs to and scrubs both hands over his face. His comm chirps twice, like it’s tattling on him, then falls silent.
“What was that?” I ask, studying the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“Briefing,” he mutters. “Whole wing’s in a frenzy. Ceremony prep, security sweeps…it’s a mess.” He looks at me, and for once, there’s no grin, no boyish shrug. Just exhaustion so raw it makes my chest ache.
“You okay?” I ask, folding my hands to keep them from fidgeting.
He huffs. “Define okay.” His eyes dart toward the door again, jittery. “Did you eat?”
“I forgot,” I lie, because admitting I was too nervous to ask anyone for food feels silly.
Colt nods, unsurprised. “I’ll grab something.” The comm shrieks again, loud enough that I can almost hear the command from his earpiece. He clutches the side of his head, slipping a curse under his breath.
He’s already halfway out the door when I call, “Wait! Your—” He’s gone before I can form the word “clipboard.” The door slams shut behind him with a scrape of boots on tile. The quiet that follows is rife with possibility.
I glance at the desk. The clipboard sits where he left it, angled toward me like bait.
I shouldn’t.
It’s none of my business. It’s his job. His punishment if I’m caught.
But the longer I stare, the louder it calls. He’s never careless, yet he left this. For me? No. Probably not. Definitely not. He was just in a rush. Still, my pulse kicks at the thought that maybe this is the only mistake he’ll ever make.
I slide off my bed, every step toward the desk bogged down with guilt.
“Just a peek,” I whisper to no one. It’ll only take a second. Just to prove to myself it’s nothing beyond simple curiosity, the kind that can’t be rebellion unless you get caught.
I’m starting to wonder where I learned that from.
When I pick it up, I quickly realize it’s in fact not nothing.
It’s a map.
Colt, Ryder, and Vance all seem to be on rotation for graduation day.
Thirty-minute intervals. Carefully planned routes, each scribbled in Colt’s loopy print.
Everything has a label. Hallways, entrances, service elevators, even the restrooms. At the bottom corner, a coffee stain smears half a label: Exit B-2.
My heart trips, somersaults, and lands back in my chest with a thud.
Exit.
I run my finger over the blurred ink, tracing the shape of the word until it’s etched in me. I don’t need the whole picture. I just need the door.
The map denotes several other exits, but only one appears to be relatively unguarded.
It also fails to specify where cameras might be. I’d have to be fast. Or I’d need to disable them. The former is far more feasible.
I lock my eyes on the paper again, trailing through the route.
The stage door would be the easiest to slip through.
Then, I could take the maintenance hall all the way to the maintenance stairs, wait for the rotation, and slip past the service corridors.
From there, I could make it to the door in less than thirty seconds.
It’s not much, but it’s more of a plan than I had five minutes ago.
My senses return just in time for Colt’s boots to echo down the hall. He’s shouting codes, presumably into his comm. I drop the clipboard hard enough to thump and skitter to the window ledge just as the lock slides out of place.
Colt slips back in with a modest tray: bottled water, a wrapped sandwich, and a bruised apple that looks like it lost a fight. He kicks the door shut with his heel and sets the tray on the sill beside me with exaggerated care.
“Ta-da,” he says, voice falling flat halfway through.
“Wow,” I say. “A feast.”
“Only the best.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. His eyes flick to the desk, then back to me.
I offer him a small smile, perched like the picture of innocence on the non-window’s sill.
“How was the briefing?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.
He rocks back on his heels. Presses his lips together. “Brief.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” I press, squinting at his arm. Peeking out under his jacket, there’s a deep mark marring his left wrist.
“Time is subjective.” He flashes me a small smile that feels wrong, then shoves the sandwich into my hands like he needs my mouth to be busy. “Eat.”
I take a shallow bite. Fighting him over food is a battle I never win.
“What’s on the clipboard?” I ask, holding the sandwich up so he can’t claim I’m not eating.
“Nothing,” he says too fast. He steps to the desk and palms it, the muscles in his forearm jumping. The coffee stain darkens under his thumb. “Work stuff.”
“I figured.”
He exhales hard and slumps against the wall, letting his head tip back. The motion drags his sleeve up, just enough to bare the angry welt circling his wrist. It’s not a bruise like I originally thought. It’s a burn. Red and raw, raised in the shape of the thin wristband he always wears.
My stomach drops. “Colt.”
His eyes raise to me, then down to his wrist. He jerks back like I somehow caused it. “Don’t.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” His hand shakes when he drags the sleeve back into place. “It’s just Carr’s way of keeping us sharp.”
“Sharp?” My voice splinters, rage dripping on every syllable. “That’s—” I cut myself off before the word torture spills out.
“Mays—”
“No.” I slide off the sill and step closer before he can turn away. “He did that to you?” I battle down the bile constricting my throat. “Why? For what?”
Emotions flicker across his face—shame, guilt, and grief all tangled into a mess of pain.
He laughs, flat and pitiful. “You think it’s just you they’ve got on a leash?
” He yanks the sleeve up to show me the damage full-on.
“Welcome to the team. Yours shocks, mine burns. It’s the same damn game, Mays. ”
The sight steals my breath. “Colt…”
“Don’t make me talk about it. Please.” His voice cracks, desperation where anger had been moments prior. “Because if I start, I’ll say things I can’t take back.”
I reach for his hand anyway. The burn is hot under my thumb, skin ridged and raw. He winces, but doesn’t pull away. I trace around it carefully, like I can undo the damage just by touching it gentler than the doctors ever would.
“You shouldn’t have to live like this.” The words hardly materialize, but he hears me.
“Neither should you.” His hand tightens over mine, sudden and fierce, anchoring himself in me. His eyes glisten with the one emotion he has no reason to feel: guilt.
I want to tell him I’d rather take a hundred shocks than see one more burn on him. But the ache in my throat steals the words. I squeeze his hand, holding it steady between both of mine.
His free hand moves up to cup my face, rough palm brushing my cheek like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he doesn’t memorize me this way.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispers.
“Like what?”
His jaw works, his thumb trembling against my skin. “Like I’m worth saving.”
I force my master planning to take a backseat. Tonight, I just need to be here. Letting him hold me above water before the impending tidal wave pulls me under one last time.
Two days. Sink or swim.
It won’t be long now.