6. Chapter six #3
I’m too wrapped in my own thoughts, drunk on bloodlust, when the second one’s suddenly there. I don’t notice it until a scream rips out— Kieran’s . Right before it’s on me.
I spin in a heartbeat, Whisper already swinging. The Walker barrels in, mouth wide, teeth snapping for my shoulder. I slam my forearm up, let it catch on my flesh, and drive the blade straight through its skull with my other hand. Fast, brutal, done.
It collapses in a heap at my boots.
Pain lances hot up my arm. I shake my arm out, cursing. Fuck, it stings like fire.
I wait a couple minutes, still and ready, but no more Walkers come. The rain’s already fizzling out. Around here it never lasts long. It’s never predictable, though. Sometimes it’s red, sometimes it’s just water. Nature can’t seem to make up its mind.
I leave the corpses and the whimpering boy in the street and head back to the shop. Kieran’s still at the front, eyes wide, stunned, scared.
Fuck.
Without a word, I push past him and go deeper into the building until I find a bathroom. Don’t care that it isn’t mine , I just need to get the red rain off of me. It might not be infectious to me , but if Kieran touches me like this… Thank fuck we have running water in this city.
I strip the wet clothes and my boots off and get in the tub entirely naked, putting the showerhead on.
I scrub myself quickly and efficiently with some flowery soap I found, until the water that runs down the drain isn’t pink anymore.
Then I grab the nearest towel and dry myself off before wrapping it around my waist and checking the wound on my forearm.
The flesh is torn, the teeth marks deep. It’s already bruising purple.
Ugly, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.
When I glance up, he’s there. Kieran. Standing in the doorway, staring at me like I’ve grown another head. His eyes drag over the soggy clothes in the corner. Over me. Over the cut, blood welling again. Over my torso, my arms, my legs… cheeks flushing that gorgeous red once more.
He doesn’t say anything right away, just puts a bundle of clothes on the counter, takes me by my injured arm and guides me to the edge of the tub. He presses a hand down on my shoulder until I sit.
I go rigid, can’t remember the last time anyone had the audacity to touch me, to push me. It burns, tingles, leaves something crawling under my flesh. And fuck, he smells like soap and something lemony and something I can’t shake. Something I don’t want to shake.
He ignores the way I blink up at him like an idiot, steps before me and brings my arm up, inspecting the wound. “You’re bleeding.”
I don’t miss the way he looks at me… finally looks at me like most others do. Scared.
And I don’t know why, but it grates on me. My jaw locks tight, I pull my arm back.
“Careful now, you’re staring,” I sneer.
His brows knit. “What? Why are you being like this?”
“You’re scared of me.”
“I’m not.”
Then he does something no one ever dared. He cups my face, fingers firm against my jaw, forcing my head back to meet his eyes. I freeze. No one’s ever touched me like that before. I don’t remember anyone even trying...
And fuck, I like it.
I hate that I like it.
“I’m scared for you,” he says, steady as steel. “Not of you.”
I frown, throat tight.
“That second Walker…”
“I’m Immune.”
“You’re not invincible.”
“Watch me.”
“For fuck’s sake.” An eyeroll. “You need stitches.”
“Just let it scar like the rest of them.”
His eyes flicker over my arms and chest… my neck, taking in the various crescent shaped scars I know are spread over my tawny skin. I swear there’s… pain in his expression.
“I have a kit,” he croaks.
Before I can argue, he’s already pulling it out of his backpack. He settles the needle, threads it with steady fingers. He grabs a stool from the corner, sits down, and leans in. His hair falls forward, a wayward curl shadowing his face so I can’t see his eyes.
Can’t see what he’s thinking.
His focus is razor-sharp, lips caught between his teeth as he works, stitching my skin closed like he’s done it a hundred times before. Each pull of the thread burns, but I grit through it, because it’s not the pain that’s undoing me… it’s him.
When he ties the last knot, I should be relieved. Instead, I catch myself staring at that lip, chewed raw, and fuck if I know why, but my thumb moves on its own. I press it there, tugging it free from his teeth.
His gaze snaps up. Finally, there they are. My endless seas, swirling with something I can’t name.
His breath stutters, a gasp brushes over my skin as I still my thumb against his mouth, rubbing that pouty bottom lip just because I can.
I’m fucked. I’m royally, totally, ultimately fucked .
“Why do you watch me at night?” he asks then, voice low, almost fragile. Like he already knows the answer, but needs to hear me choke on it. The question hangs heavy between us, louder than the remnants of the rain still dripping outside, louder than the pulse pounding in my ears.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
He presses his lips together, eyes flicking up, steady and sure. “I think you do know.” His gaze softens, his words whispering against my thumb. “You want to keep me safe.”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. He knows it’s true. Somehow, this golden boy has burrowed his way under my skin, latched there like a fucking thorn I can’t pull out. The harder I try to dig it free, the deeper it settles.
And every time I think I’ve shaken him, he looks at me with those impossible eyes, and I’m caught all over again.
T hat night, when I creep into his room after filing my report back at the Watcher’s castle, the balcony door’s already open. Waiting.
And there’s something new.
An old, ratty armchair, shoved into the corner next to his dresser and the balcony door. A big one. A blanket folded carefully over the armrest, like someone thought of me. Like he knew I’d come.
And fuck it, if my black heart—dead, cracked, whatever’s left of it—doesn’t stumble in my chest at the sight. Because no one’s ever left a space for me before. Not until him. Not once in all the blood and ruin of this life has anyone looked at me and thought: stay .
So I do.
I stay.