3. Chapter three
Chapter three
Max
“ W hy are we here, exactly? For the third time this week, might I add? I mean… you can only count so many times as part of our investigation.”
I cut Tass a look from where we’re holed up in a cracked leather booth, the smell of wine, sex, and sweat clinging to the walls.
Truth is, I know exactly why we’re here.
Why I’m here. Why I keep dragging us back to this hole-in-the-wall bar under the guise of investigating.
And why I don’t mind that we got this assignment.
Our commander, Roe, sent us to keep an eye on Joyeus, off the books.
I told him what went down at the dock, how she was scavenging for new workers, and he didn’t trust it.
Apparently, one of our colleagues also went to him about the fact that there are unregistered people on the island.
But since Roe's council too, he needs to be quiet.
Needs leverage and to see how deep it goes before he makes a move.
But there’s another reason I don’t mind that he put us on this.
Because every time we sit here, I can make sure that boy is still breathing.
Even if it's weeks after he stumbled off the docks with no papers, no plan, and every reason to be shoved back on that rust-bucket scrap they call a boat.
Why do I do it? Why the fuck do I keep checking on him? I know the answer, but I don’t like admitting it.
Guilt, that stupid voice at the back of my skull whispers again. It’s fucking guilt. If I hadn’t opened my mouth, he’d be long gone by now. Back to whatever mainland shithole he crawled out of. Maybe worse off, maybe better. But not here.
But nope. I had to butt in. Had to keep him here. Because those blue eyes went wide with terror so intense when it got clear he was in trouble. For some fucked reason I couldn’t stomach it.
And now, because of me, he’s no better off.
Condemned to a fate way fucking worse than anything he might’ve faced on the mainland.
Where scavenging is the currency of survival, where settlements still stand after the world collapsed seventy-six years ago, where some kind of civilization pieced itself back together after scientists destroyed humanity.
Rough, yeah, but safe enough if you know where to look.
Here? Shit, he has to do far worse things to survive. Things that leave the staff here hollow-eyed and vacant, hooked on whatever drug that keeps them upright, keeps them from shattering completely.
Not him. Not yet, I keep telling myself.
He’s still underage. They can’t sell his body until he’s an adult.
He said he’s seventeen. But fuck me, if you look close enough, past that pretty-as-fuck face and those wide, innocent eyes, you know it’s a blatant lie.
There’s something older in him. Hardened.
Like the world already tried to break him, and he’s still standing, defying it.
I hate that I see it. Hate that I notice. Because I shouldn’t give a shit. Not about him. Not about anyone. I don’t care about gut-wrenching ocean eyes or pretty, pouting mouths. I don’t.
“Just shut the fuck up,” I finally say when dragging my attention to Tass, setting my somewhat-cold drink down, courtesy of the solar-powered cooling system they’ve rigged here. “He doesn’t trust that wench, Joyeus von Richter, and you know it.”
“Really?” she mutters, amusement dripping from every word.
“Roe really thinks there’s something going on?
Checking if she’s still skimming coin off her boys and girls?
Watering down the wine? Everyone knows Joyeus is crooked, Max.
That’s not Watcher business. That’s just Joyeus.
And no one gives a shit because this is where they come to drink, to fuck, and to forget.
They’ll turn a blind eye to whatever she pulls as long as they get their fix. ”
Her smirk slices at me when she catches my split-second wince. Of course she notices. Tass notices everything.
I ignore her, focus back on the task of sharpening my blades. She knows Roe like I do. Knows he trained us, raised us out of that shithole orphanage, turned us into something useful instead of letting us rot. But I know why he asked me for this instead of her.
Because we're the ones who can slip into places no one else can. Because people respect her and worship the Immune One. They let me close and let things slip they’d never tell anyone else. Because when Roe needs quiet truths dragged into the light, I’m the one who can get them.
And shit, if we get thrown in the Pit because of it, he knows we’ll fight our way out.
The cleaver grinds against the whetstone harder than it needs to, the scrape loud and grating, sharp enough to make the drunk at the next table flinch as sparks fly to his dry hair, wanting to set it ablaze.
Good. Let them flinch.
The sound of breaking glass cracks through the bar, and my head snaps up. My eyes drag, against my better judgment, straight to the counter. Straight to him .
That damned boy. Kieran… The silver dog tag around his neck says so now, stamped like a brand. A normal person. Untouched. Not Immune either.
Not that I broke into his shitty room via the balcony in the dead of night while he was sleeping to learn that. That would be creepy, of course.
His hair looks lighter again, sun catching on it, pulling gold from the strands. Like the grime finally scrubbed away and the island’s sun claimed him for its own. The same sun he spends hours under.
And how the fuck would I know that ? I also haven’t followed him around to check where Joyeus really put him up.
If he got one of her crumbling hotel rooms, like all her “staff” does.
And I sure as hell haven’t been watching him burn under that sun on his time off, a small smile tugging at his mouth whenever he isn’t tripping over himself behind the bar.
All under the guise of staking out Joyeus, of course. Comes with the territory.
At least that’s what I tell myself. Gods fucking damn it.
“You’re staring again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She leans back, arms crossed, grin smug as hell. “Cute little bartender got your attention, huh?”
I sneer, fish a smoke from my tin, light it slowly, and let the burn fill the silence before setting it in the ashtray. My blade rests across my knee, and I drag the stone over it again, making it sharp enough to cut through bone. Which it often does.
“He was a stowaway, wasn’t he?” Tass goes on when I don’t reply, voice pitched lower so no one else can hear.
The smoke curls from my lips as I look up, meeting her gaze over the table. She sprawls, arms along the booth, one heavy boot planted on the wooden table because she doesn’t give a damn about courtesy.
“Why do you think he was a stowaway?”
“Hmm, let me think. One, he had nothing but that ratty bag when he came off that boat, no other luggage. Two, you found him tucked away in the cargo hold, all alone. And lastly, I did check the body. Papers said nothing about a son. And a twenty-eight-year-old man with a seventeen-year-old kid? Doesn’t add up, does it? ”
I don’t even bother to defend myself. “Good thing his face was chewed off then, and nobody noticed. I assume you got rid of the papers?”
Tass lets her boot drop onto the ground and sighs. “Max…”
I toss the whetstone and the cleaver onto the table, grab my smoke again. “What are they gonna do when they find out? Throw me back in the Pit? Good fucking luck with that.”
“They might throw me in with you, since I’m an accomplice now.”
“Good. It’s been a while.”
She holds up three fingers. “I will get three Walkers next time. It’s tricky.”
“They can’t exactly infect you twice. You’ll be fine.”
“I know. But you’ve heard the studies—the more times you get bitten as a Touched one, the quicker it can spread. Let’s try to avoid that, yeah? I still like hanging out with you.” Silence lingers before she adds: “For now.”
The weight of it presses down, the reminder that Tass lives on borrowed time. Day by day, that shadow always hanging over her. I don’t want to think about it, don’t want to picture the end of that line.
So my eyes drift, land where they shouldn’t. On him.
Again.
At least he’s got new clothes now. Not the ratty mess I first saw him in. Still too big on his frame, though. And fuck me if I don’t think Joyeus does that on purpose—making him look smaller, younger, boyish. Drowning him in fabric so people forget the muscle underneath.
My eyes stick to him as he lines up a couple of glasses, pouring cheap wine with steady hands.
The irony doesn’t fucking escape me. Whoring out someone underage—that’s a crime and a line even Joyeus can’t cross until the papers say otherwise.
But pouring drinks for the same foul bastards who’ll have their hands all over him in a couple of months? That’s fine. That’s business.
And he’s good at it. Too good. Like he’s done this before, sliding the glasses across the counter without spilling a drop, his smile small, practiced enough to make the drunks grin back, giving him extra coin. Fuck, for all I know, he has done it before.
I still don’t buy the underage story. Not with the way he carries himself now that the heat’s off him. He’s standing taller, shoulders squared, chin up like he’s been here all his life instead of a couple of weeks.
And godsdamn it, that doesn’t make me stop staring either.
“Just talk to him already, check if he’s fine,” my annoying friend butts in again.
“I already know he’s fine. His name is Kieran, by the way.”
She groans loud enough to turn a few heads. “Max… tell me you didn’t—”
I give her a look, the corner of my mouth pulling. “Third floor. Second to last room on the right. Perfect view from up the wall, easy to scale.”