Chapter 2
The fucking baker.
Moros
Of all the recruits this year, the one that makes pies and goddamned bread is the one that’s not afraid of me.
Go figure.
“So why do they call you Moros?”
And he fucking chats. Too much.
“It’s my name,” I mutter, my gaze swiveling all around the tall brush, my hand braced over the barrel of my weapon. Always ready. Always prepared.
We might be inside the property line, walking a frequented path around the Outskirts, but we’re still in between the spaces that are heavily monitored. Separated from one post to the next, in the blind spots.
It’s that in between that has been the most dangerous recently and is exactly why post number twenty-three is off limits to anyone except a select few.
It’s the farthest away, the distance between it and the other posts much larger, leaving plenty of gaps for raiders, wanderers, and the decomposed alike.
Which means we should be walking much fucking faster to fill the gap.
A point that my new yappy puppy doesn’t seem to have picked up on yet.
“That’s a weird name,” he chirps like this is just some whimsical stroll.
“And Amo isn’t?”
“Touché. How much farther?” he asks, his gaze locked on mine and not where the fuck he's going.
I slam my arm across his chest, stopping him mid-step.
“Pay attention.” The words are a snarl off my lips, and he looks at me like a goddamn animal trapped in a light beam, his hazel eyes wide.
“What? Oh, fuck,” he squeaks out and I make a sound in the base of my throat, forcing him back a step. “Is that a bear trap?”
“Trap, yes. But not for bear.”
His gulp is audible among the buzzing of insect wings and the crackle of a fire in the distance.
“O-okay.” He pats the arm still braced across his body, his gaze wild and searching mine.
For what, I’m not sure because he’s sure as shit not going to find any comfort from me, before he finally drops his eyes back down to look at the wide-open, claw-mouthed contraption that almost claimed his foot. “The forest has teeth, good to know.”
I snap mine, and he jumps.
Then he smacks his lips and shoves me right in the chest.
“I could’ve died, Moros.”
Huffing, I shrug and right myself on the barely-there trail. “It’s just a foot. Heard you can live with just one.”
There’s a grumbling that follows, but he otherwise falls silent behind me as we continue forward. Step for step. His feet following in my exact path.
Right. Behind. Me.
I can feel him. The tickle of his presence is like a hot iron on my back, too close and too warm.
I’m aware enough of him, and it’s distracting me. Pulling my attention backwards when I need to be looking forward. Focused on him instead of what’s up ahead and what might be somewhere behind, not so distracted that I lose track of which path I followed.
“How much longer?” he asks again and my jaw clenches tight.
“You should have gone back with the others,” I mutter and pull out my compass. If we go too far east, the forest thickens as does the number of decomposed wandering among the trees, and while I know my way around a horde, Amo doesn’t.
But he thinks he does, and that misplaced confidence is the problem.
He smacks his lips again and reaches around me, fingertips grazing the back of my hand as he tries to grab the directional device he probably doesn’t even know how to use. “Did you get us lost?!”
“No—” maybe, “—gotta make sure you don’t lose that foot.”
The slap of skin on skin makes him yelp and my fingers sting, but he takes that fucking grabby hand back.
Silence falls over us and it’s … uncomfortable. Loaded.
I sigh and shove the compass back in my pocket as I turn around, my mouth working around words that fall silent off my tongue at the sight of his reddened face. His downcast eyes. A poked out bottom lip. One of those bouncing curls falling over his face.
“Are you fucking pouting right now?”
“No,” he mumbles, rubbing absently at the back of his smacked hand.
My stomach twists and my lip lifts.
“What the hell,” I say low and grab his wrist to inspect the red mark blossoming across his tawny skin. Guilt scrapes along the bottom of my stomach and I roll my eyes. Why do I do this to myself? “I’m sorry.”
His hand grows warm in my grip, and I resist the urge to tighten it when he pulls away.
“Just startled me is all.”
Huffing, I look him over once more before turning back to the trail. At this rate, it’ll be nightfall soon, and we won’t be any closer to the post.
He follows me in an odd silence that grates on my nerves more than his chatting did.
“Look,” I snap when his lack of chatting does the fucking opposite I want it to, and spin on him. “I said I was sorry. Can we move on now?”
His face scrunches up, curls framing the shitty look staring up at me.
“And why do you assume any of this is about you? Narcissistic much?” he snaps back with hurt he hides with his snark.
I growl low and long and though he keeps that shitty look on his face, I watch it become forced. The facade slips. Mask falling.
“Then hold your hand out.”
“Ew, no.” He leans away from me, hand cradled to his chest like it’s a precious thing in need of protection from me.
He’d be right. He does—it. It does.
“Amo,” I growl and open my palm to him, my eyes narrowed to slits. “Show me you trust me. Hand.”
The muscles in the corners of his jaw feathers, his eyes bouncing all over the place like he doesn’t know where to look. What to think. How to respond.
Goddammit, he’s too young to know what he wants.
Which means he doesn’t realize what a sexy little thing he is, either.
Thin features, wild curls to his chin on one side, golden skin that would look so good beneath my hands. Reddened from my grip. Blossoming from my bite.
Clicking my tongue when he stands still as a statue, I pat the flush on his cheek. It grows redder, hotter, a reaction that has my balls clenching.
“Knew you wouldn’t be able to follow instruction.”
His lips smack open and I have to turn away from him to hide my chuckle.
He’s too easy.
“What kind of fucking instruction is that? You were gonna smack me! Hey, come back here.”