7. Chapter seven
Chapter seven
Kieran
S omething shifted after our visit to the marketplace.
After I saw him slay those Walkers like it was nothing, bloodlust rolling off him in waves, as if he belonged to the storm itself.
After I stitched him up in the bathroom of that little shop, close enough to trace the map of scars across his skin, scars that speak louder than he ever will.
After he touched me and that bloodlust in his gaze changed into lust… minus the blood.
I’m not blind. I’m not an idiot. I know what this is. This attraction between us.
He scares the shit out of everyone who gets too close.
But he’s not like that with me.
I’ve seen the way his mouth softens, the way his shoulders finally drop when he lets me near. Every time I think I’ve figured him out, something shifts again, and I end up looking harder, longer, like if I collect enough scraps I’ll finally piece him together.
And maybe that’s what this investigation is for me, besides being a way out of my fate… it’s an excuse. To keep him close. To keep feeling the pull I swore to myself I wouldn’t act on.
We’ve been researching for a while now, and we could’ve done more. I could’ve done more. Pressed harder, questioned more people, maybe even broken into the hotel offices with some medical excuse.
But maybe I don’t want this investigation to be over just yet. I really want my freedom, but then what? Even if getting rid of Joyeus is everything , it also leaves me with nothing .
I… like it here. I like hanging out with his friends Tass and Sami, even though he insists on calling the latter a colleague. I like my job behind the bar. I even like my little room in this former hotel… even if it’s nothing more than a bed and a dresser… and now also a chair.
It’s still mine. Sort off.
If it weren’t for Joyeus hanging over my head, I’d almost call this a life. My life. A life that’s maybe, finally, worth living.
Joyeus . She’s always there. Hovering in the back of my mind like a shadow I can’t shake. But it’s not her that occupies most of my thoughts. It’s him.
Always him. That shadow in the corner of the room, eyes on me even when I close mine.
There’s a beauty in the cruel reality of Max…
the way he moves, the way he fights, the way he leaves Walkers in pieces.
That day… something did shift. The way he watched me.
The way I held his face. The way that slash of a mouth softened when he touched my lips, thumb rubbing back and forth, back and forth, like he couldn’t stop himself.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I don’t know why I care. I don’t know why he cares.
All I know is he’s fucking up my plans.
My plans to get out of this safely… which might be a lie anyway, because he already handed me the best plan: find out what Joyeus is doing, and I get my freedom. Simple as that.
Only nothing about him is simple.
The last time we spoke to each other was in that bathroom. But I know he was with me after. I know he spent the night, even though he was gone in the morning.
It was clear in the way the blanket wasn’t quite where I left it. It was clear by the cigarette butts left in the little ashtray I put out for him. And it was mostly clear because I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was there.
Not watching me like he usually does. Not pinning me with that intense stare that makes it hard to breathe.
No… he was asleep. Curled up in the chair, head on the armrest, shoulders hunched like he’d fought the whole damn island and lost. Snoring softly, dark hair falling across his forehead.
He’s different when he’s asleep. Softer, if that’s even possible.
More real. Less dangerous, even if I know that if I reached out, he’d probably bite my hand off like a Walker.
I fell back asleep right after, a small smile on my face. And I haven’t seen him since.
Even now, five days later, when I walk into the bar…
he’s not there. Not at his usual spot at my counter, not twisting one of those cigarettes he loves so much, not squaring off with Tass and Sami or polishing his blades.
The stool stays empty, because no one dares sit where their champion, their legend, their nightmare, usually does.
His absence echoes louder than his presence ever did.
Max and the others are on patrol. Their own regular run, I know that much. It’s something they do all the time, heading up to the northern villages for trade, bringing supplies, or cutting down Walkers along the way.
I’m not on the inside, so I’ve got no clue what they’re really doing out there. All I know is his absence hangs heavier than it should.
But it’s not just him missing today.
When I step behind the bar to relieve Ben, he’s not there either. Pale, freckled Ben, the ginger who always runs mornings. Instead one of our servers, Mira, is covering, hair high in a ponytail, her bronze tag catching the light. She’s one of the girls that does more than waitressing alone.
“Where’s Ben?” I ask.
She blinks at me like I should already know. “Haven’t you heard? He’s been missing since yesterday. They say he turned Walker.”
My brows knit. “A Walker? Ben?”
Mira doesn’t add much more. Just looks relieved I’m taking over, grabs her things, and makes for the door.
Before she leaves, she mentions something about a group of rowdy guys in the corner.
All with bronze tags. Touched ones. Says they’re well on their way to being drunk and I should keep an eye on it.
I keep her warning in mind as I slip into the rhythm of the shift and start pouring drinks, catching coins tossed across the counter.
While my hands keep moving, my ears do the real work.
Snatches of gossip drift my way as I do my work.
Always the same: Ben’s gone, Ben turned Walker, poor kid never had a chance.
Except he wasn’t Touched. He wore silver. Clean. I saw it myself just yesterday. Unless the last rain turned him Touched even days later? But that can’t be… can it?
The thought knots in my gut and I just know that something isn’t right here, and I need to tell Max… If his Majesty, King of the Immune, dancer of the Red Rains, ever has the decency to show his annoying face.
I toy with the idea of asking a couple of Watchers at one of the back tables if they’ve seen him, but it would look weird. Desperate. And the last thing I need is more eyes on me, more whispers about why Joyeus’ boy is poking around where he doesn’t belong.
Still… I can’t shake the feeling something is off.
But when I finally pull my head out of my ass and mutter to one of the waitresses that I’ll be gone for a bit to ask those Watchers, and turn around… they’re gone. Shit.
I make for the door, thinking it’s safer to ask outside anyway, but then that table catches my attention. The one Mira warned me about. The one with a group of heavy-shouldered dockworkers, bearded and sunburned, all big and obnoxious.
They’ve been at it all evening. Louder with every drink, voices rising with every round, laughter sharp enough to cut through the rest of the room.
Something about the man sitting with his back to the wall makes me pause. The way he slouches like he owns the whole fucking place, the way that mouth slants… There’s something nagging at the back of my brain.
When he finally spots me standing there in the middle of the room, he cocks his head, a slow grin spreading, showing off rotten teeth.
Oh fuck . I know him. I know him. I fucking know him.
The filthy dark-blond hair’s tied back at his nape now, the goatee new, different from the full beard I last saw on him. But it’s him. Definitely him.
Shit. Shit. Shit .
How the fuck can he be here? On Ibitha, of all places?
My eyes go wide, and my hand goes straight for the wicked dagger at my hip Max gave me.
Slim, balanced, black hilt worn smooth, and sharp enough to bite deep if I let it fly.
I told Max once that I used to have a dagger.
He doesn’t know it wasn’t just one, which I traded during my journey here.
He doesn’t know my mother made me practice with them, flicking blades at a board she painted with big red X’s.
Over and over, being as cautious as she was, drilling it into me that a weapon is the only guarantee you get in this world.
But even though I was in that proverbial tower most of the time, locked away, kept out of sight, sometimes I had to haul her back from a corner somewhere, gone on drugs and alcohol, unconscious, barely breathing.
That’s how I know him.
Everyone in that building knew us. They all knew little Martha had a son. They all knew where to find me when she was too far gone to stand on her own.
One time, he was there. Waiting in an armchair when I walked into his flat after a tip about where she was. Smirking at me in a way that made Max’s smile look like a kitten purring. My mother was sprawled across the couch, barely clothed, high out of her mind, head lolling back.
His eyes dragged over her first, then over me, slow and deliberate.
“You’re even prettier. Wanna earn some coin, boy? Just like your momma?” he’d said, like it was a joke, like it wasn’t the most rotten fucking thing I’d ever heard. “That pretty ass could make you rich in no time. You’d have half the block lined up for a turn.”
He tossed some tokens onto the table then, glinting under the shitty lamp. Payment for her, and a promise of what he wanted next.
I yanked one of my daggers free right then, blade flashing in the dark, but he didn’t even flinch. Stayed seated, smoking something harsher than Ashleaf, grinning those rotten teeth at me while I dragged my mother up and the fuck out of there.
And that same smirk—rotten, lazy, like he’s already won—is the one staring back at me now. I swear to the Gods, Max seems like a walk in the park to me right now. Nothing but a big ol’ softy.
My heart kicks against my ribs, erratic, haywire, as he pushes himself up from the chair.