9. Chapter nine
Chapter nine
Kieran
I t takes forever to get out of the arena. The crowd’s too thick, everyone jostling, buzzing like they just watched the best bloodsport of their lives. Which, technically, they did.
When we finally break outside, Sami and I end up by the cliffs while Tass talks with Commander Roe a little ways back, asking if they’ve released Max already.
We can’t find him.
He should’ve been out here first, but of course he’s not. He’s vanished like fucking smoke.
My chest tightens with something I don’t want to call panic. He’s hurt , dammit. They tortured him. And him being the stubborn ass he is, I know he won’t drag himself to Medical.
I rub my face, trying to shove down the gnawing edge in my gut.
“Shit. Where do you guys even live?” I snap harsher than I intended when Tass comes our way.
But fuck, I should know that already, right?
After all this time, I don’t have a clue where he lives, what he does to unwind, what he looks like when he’s not bleeding in front of a crowd, when he’s not in uniform.
What he is, who he is, when he’s just Max.
“Easy there, loverboy.” Tass can’t even hide her grin at my mess. She jerks her chin toward the gate through the wall, since the arena is just outside of it. “Other end of the city. Past the docks and the beach. One of the last apartment buildings at the end of the boulevard.”
Great. That’s helpful. Totally specific. I roll my fucking eyes.
“But I think you know he won’t be there,” she adds, “not in his apartment, at least.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs, almost fond. “You’re just as much a tool as he is, you know that?”
It clicks then, my eyes widening. I know where he is. Of fucking course.
When I spin to take off, she catches my arm. “Tell him he gets two days off. Roe’s orders.”
I nod, too wired to answer, and push into the flow of bodies spilling out the gates. On my right the beach stretches dark and endless, but I cut left instead, taking the road that runs parallel to the wall, north toward the resort and its three looming buildings.
I almost run, don’t bother to look back since I know Tass and Sami are still there, watching, following, making sure I get home safe.
Like I can’t fucking take care of myself.
I’m not some damsel in distress. I know my way around a knife; I know how to cut a man open if it comes to that.
But I’ll tell them to fuck off with the babysitting another time. They’re just following Max’s orders.
By the time I’m up the stairs, my chest is tight, heart hammering. My hand shakes on the handle, though I’ll never admit that out loud.
When I open the door, the air hits me like a punch. Familiar. My soap . One of the few things in this whole gods-forsaken city that’s actually mine, paid for with my own earnings. It curls through the room, sharp and fresh, making my skin prickle like it has caught me doing something I shouldn’t.
The bathroom door’s ajar. The glass divider is still slick, rivulets of condensation sliding down like someone’s just stepped out. A toothbrush that isn’t mine on the counter.
But Max is nowhere in sight.
The sliding door to the balcony is open, the night air drifting in together with something tangy.
Ashleaf . Sure enough, I finally spot him when I step outside.
I let out a deep breath, my eyes closing for a second.
He’s here. He’s slouched against the glass beside my flower pots, barefoot, wearing the gray joggers he shoved into my hands weeks ago.
My chest lurches, not only in relief that he’s here, mostly in one piece, but also because those are my joggers. On him. Nothing else.
I try not to notice they’re a bit too short, try not to stare at the ankles peeking out, the curve of his feet… bare. And that hits me harder than it should. Max is always in boots, heavy, stomping, indestructible. But barefoot? He looks almost vulnerable. Like someone I could actually reach.
His black hair’s still damp, shoved back messily, droplets catching on the curve of his neck and sliding slowly, so slowly, down those very broad, very muscular shoulders.
I swear my skin’s on fucking fire.
Swallowing the nerves away, I lower myself beside him, careful, like any sudden move might break the moment. The only acknowledgment I get is a whisper of a nudge—his shoulder brushing mine as if by accident—before his gaze lifts right back to the sky.
He lifts his cigarette for another drag before he stubs it out against the concrete and exhales smoke slowly into the night, a long sigh escaping as his head tilts back.
Finally, finally , his eyes cut toward me.
For a breath we just look at each other. His gaze heavy, unreadable. And mine stuck on the bruise swelling dark around his eye, on the raw mark at his neck where teeth broke skin.
“You’re bleeding,” I say after a beat of silence, because I can’t say you’re alive without falling apart.
The corner of his mouth pulls up, almost bored. “It’s really not that bad.”
Maybe he thinks the act still works, that lazy shrug, that careless tone. Like I’ll buy it. Like I don’t notice the shadows carved deep under his eyes, or how his shoulders sag as soon as he thinks no one’s watching.
He thinks I don’t see him. But I fucking do.
Despite everything, I should fear him, like every person on this island who has some sense does. Shit, the fight I just witnessed should’ve been a big ass warning sign.
A warning to stay far away from him.
He instills more fear and horror in these people than the damn zombies. He’s the nightmare parents tell their children about, the monster lurking beneath every shattered dream on this forsaken island.
But I don’t fear him.
Oh, how I fucking don’t.
In the nothingness, the wasteland, in the emptiness that makes me me , there’s this tiny flicker.
A spark of something . A shimmer in the dark that glows stubbornly brighter, refusing to snuff out, refusing to let me end it.
It scares me more than he ever could, this fragile little thing that feels dangerously like desire, or maybe even hope for a better life.
That spark has a name.
That spark is called Max.
He looks at me then, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. Like he sees all my cracks, all my jagged edges, all the shit I try to bury… and decides to stay, anyway.
And I want him to see it. All of me. Can’t push it down even if I wanted to.
“I was scared for you today.” The words come out in a broken whisper.
He huffs, looks forward again, to the wall only a shadow against the star-strewn night. “Don’t be. Nine is easy to handle. I think when I get to fifteen or so, I should get worried.”
“Do I need to stitch it?” I ask, my voice still catching.
A sigh. “I’m fine.”
“But?”
“But we’re going to start training tomorrow.”
I frown, not sure where this is coming from or what kind of training he even means.
“I just spent six days wondering, stewing, obsessing if those braindead idiots from the bar went after you while I was gone. I’d have fared better if I knew you could properly defend yourself.”
My fucking heart.
I don’t tell him they were back. That he was back.
Sitting in that booth at the far end of the room, eyes locked on me, taunting me, stroking that fucking goatee.
If it weren’t for Sami and Tass glued to my side, I know he would’ve done more than stare.
The most fucked-up thing? I don’t even know his name, but I don’t need to for him to haunt my nightmares.
“Okay,” I finally say, knowing better than to argue. “You’re off for two days. Roe’s orders. Tomorrow we can start training.”
He nods once, shoulders dipping the smallest bit, like that settles it. Like the most important thing is out of the way. Then he reaches for his trusty tin, flicks it open, and pulls out another cigarette.
He lights it with one hand, like it’s nothing. Like the world isn’t burning, and the air doesn’t already stink of blood and old metal. The flare of the match catches on the edge of his jaw, and for a second, he looks almost human.
Almost.
The smoke curls around him as he exhales, slow and controlled. It doesn’t smell like his usual cigarettes. Like always, there’s something earthy beneath it. Sharp and sweet. I know that scent.
Ashleaf. Always Ashleaf.
But it’s stronger this time, blended with less tobacco, enough to make him drift, enough to quiet the beast under his skin. I can see it in the way his shoulders uncoil, the way his eyes stop scanning every shadow for something to kill.
He doesn’t offer any. Don’t ask if I mind. He just smokes and watches the horizon like it’s personally offended him.
And I watch him like I’ve never seen someone breathe before.
Max inhales with fingernails still stained a dark red from the Pit. It crackles as he inhales; the smoke curling around his jaw like it wants to kiss him.
Just like I fucking want.
“Want some, pretty?” he finally asks, voice low, already expecting my answer. But I nod my head instead, flustered at the nickname.
He smirks. “Really? Didn’t think you’d be up for it.”
“Just never did it before.” My voice comes out rougher than I meant to and I regret it instantly. I sound like a kid admitting weakness.
His eyes flicker, sharp and calculating, as he shifts close enough I can feel the heat radiating off him, close enough for his big thigh to press against mine. I turn with him, toward him, caught in the gravity of those endless star-specked eyes.
“C’mere, Kee.”
The words are more command than invitation, and then those fingers find their place on my throat. Light pressure, not choking, just guiding. Tilting my head back like I’m his to position as he pleases, like I’m his to break.
And I’d fucking let him.
My head swims, not from the smoke but from him, from being this close.
My lips part on instinct, a gasp slipping out the way it always does when he’s near. Gods, he’s alluring, addictive, absolute.