TWENTY-SIX
DAKOTA
By the time we reach the temporary shelter, I’ve decided three things with complete certainty.
One, the universe is a childish, petty little bitch wearing steel-toed boots.
Two, stairs are the actual devil and should have gone extinct right alongside electricity and fresh strawberries.
Three, Kaito Kanai is fucking bleeding again.
Not dramatically. And not in a fun, fountain-of-doom kind of way that would at least justify the amount of irritation currently crawling around under my skin. It’s just enough that the cloth pressed to his side has darkened once more, spreading in a slow but stubborn bloom of red under his jacket.
I notice because I have perfectly functioning eyes, not because I’m worried.
Worry is a wasteful emotion with delicate hands and the worst timing.
I notice because bleeding people slow groups down.
Slow groups quickly become dead groups. And dead groups are just generally and famously inconvenient.
So no, I’m not worried. I’m simply being practical with a sprinkle of irritation.
The shelter is an old road maintenance office tucked away off the staff bridge, built above the lower access road and half hidden behind a row of abandoned service vehicles.
It’s not safe, because let’s be real, nothing in this world is safe anymore, but it has four walls, one lockable door, a cracked interior window, and no immediate stench of death.
On this side of the apocalypse, that’s basically like a weekend at a spa retreat.
Fletcher finds it first, because his new personality seems to include giving information rather than barking out orders like he was, and still somehow managing to be annoyingly useful.
He doesn’t say, “Get inside.”
Instead, he says, “Four walls. One entrance. Windows cracked but covered. We can hold here for ten minutes and reassess.”
Then the big, scarred bastard looks at me. Like, what, am I meant to applaud or something? I don’t.
I do, however, tell him, “Please, don’t sprain your ankle tripping over all this personal growth of yours.”
His mouth almost moves. Almost.
Then the ass drawls, “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’.”
That damned word again.
I glare at him. He looks away first, and I consider it a victory. A tiny, stupid, ridiculously satisfying victory. What the hell is wrong with me?
We move inside, and I’m immediately assaulted by the smell of dust, oil, old rubber, and damp paper.
There’s a workbench along one wall, a dead radio system, shelves with empty plastic bins, and a faded safety poster that shows off a smiling cartoon man in a hard hat giving a thumbs-up next to the words THINK BEFORE YOU LIFT.
I can only stare at it. Then I stare at Kaito, who is now leaning against the wall like standing upright is a personal grudge he intends to win through sheer spite alone.
“Very helpful,” I grumble, because even pre-apocalypse workplace safety seems to have opinions on injured idiots overdoing it.
Ewan follows my gaze and snorts. “That poster looks like it’s sharing your concerns.”
“That poster can mind its business,” I mutter.
“I don’t know,” he says, eyeing the poster then eyeing the man holding his side like that will stop him from bleeding. “Kind of seems like he’s qualified.”
Kaito’s eyes flick to the poster, and then to me. “I’m fine.”
There it is. The mating call of injured idiots everywhere.
Xeon lowers the pilot carefully onto an old vinyl bench close to the workbench. He checks on him with quiet efficiency, fingers pressed against his pulse, hand at his forehead, and expression calm enough to make the whole situation more unnerving instead of less.
“He’s getting hotter,” he notes.
“Fever?” Ewan asks.
Xeon shakes his head. “More likely an infection, blood loss, stress. Take your pick.”
“I do love a cheeky buffet,” Ewan says.
Fletcher scans the room closely before telling the group, “We move again in ten. Compound’s close, but not close enough to drag him blindly through open ground.”
There’s that word again.
Close.
The compound. The walls. People. Doctors. Scientists. Rules. Food. Maybe blockers. Maybe answers. Maybe a hundred new ways for the world to really fuck me over when it finds out what I am and decides I’m worth locking up for my own good.
I should be relieved, but I’m not. Relief is for people who believe shelter and cages are two completely different things because someone painted the walls a pretty color.
Kaito shifts against the wall, and his hand presses against his side that little bit harder. My gaze catches it, and his gaze catches me catching it. And it’s fucking annoying, too.
“Sit down,” I demand, and his brows lift slightly.
Ewan makes a soft ‘ooh’ sound and immediately stops when I give him a look. Smart man.
Kaito doesn’t move. Instead, he asks, “Was that an order?”
My jaw tightens and my stare turns into a glare. “I like to call it medical advice offered with the appropriate amount of hostility.”
“Appropriate?” he asks.
My expression turns flat. “How about you don’t push your luck?”
He watches me for a heartbeat too long, but then, slowly, he slides down the wall until he’s sitting with one knee bent and one leg stretched out, his blade resting on his thigh while the other rests loosely on his knee.
I hate that he listened, but I hate more that something in my chest finally unclenches when he does.
“Better?” he asks.
“No,” I practically bite out, looking away before he sees the lie. Not before I miss the way his mouth softens with something that isn’t quite a smile but is something close enough that I know he’s battling amusement.
It’s then that I’m glad I turn away before my body starts taking notes. Stupid body. Traitorous bitch of a body. Really fucking awful committee of flesh.
Fletcher and Xeon talk quietly next to the pilot.
Ewan stands by the cracked window with one headphone pressed to his ear, listening to the world outside like it owes him child support.
The gray morning past the covered window makes everything look bruised and gloomy, and that’s just the cherry on top of our shit sundae at this point.
“We need water,” Xeon says. “And anything clean for the wounds before we reach the gates. They probably won’t let us straight through if we look half-dead.”
“They’d be right, too, because some of us,” Ewan starts, right before he pointedly looks at me. “Are giving haunted charity shop mannequin.”
“Some of us?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
The fucker looks me up and down before he says, “Look, I’m not one to name any names or anything.”
I roll my eyes just as Fletcher points toward the door at the back of the office. “Storage closet.”
I wait, and he looks at me. I look back at him and his jaw ticks. Then he says, “Could be useful. Could be empty. Could be a death box.”
A horrible thing happens then.
I actually approve.
My face doesn’t show it, though, because I’ve practically mastered the art of discipline after six years. But still, some terrible inner judge wearing my skin decides to stamp the words as acceptable.
“Death box,” I repeat. “Poetic.”
“Informative,” he corrects.
I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Wouldn’t dare,” he volleys.
Ewan coughs into his fist while muttering at the same time, “He absolutely would.”
To absolutely no one’s surprise, Fletcher ignores him.
I cross to the storage closet, knife clutched in hand, and listen at the door. There’s nothing. No drag of feet, no weirdly wet throat noises, and no breathing. I ease it open with the tip of my blade and wait for something to throw itself at me.
Nothing does, and I find that somewhat disappointing and more suspicious than Fletcher’s new personality.
Inside, I find two sealed bottles of water, a packet of dust-covered cleaning cloths, a box of disposable gloves, and three granola bars so old they could be considered ancient. Hell, if an archaeologist found those, I’m pretty sure they’d be handed in to the nearest museum.
I take all of it, obviously.
When I turn back, Kaito is watching me. Not intensely. Well, actually, no. It’s Kaito. Everything he does is intense. The man probably reads labels like they’ve personally wronged him somehow.
Still, there’s something quieter painted over his face now. There’s pain around the edges, and exhaustion stains the skin under his eyes. And there’s a kind of control there that looks completely effortless until you realize it’s being held together with both hands and duct tape.
I toss one bottle of water to Ewan and the other to Xeon. Then I shove a cleaning cloth at Kaito. He catches it and I mutter, “Press harder.”
His gaze drops to the cloth. “A please wouldn’t go amiss. Could be nice to hear.”
“I could also leave you there to leak,” I tell him bluntly.
He pauses for a moment before he says, “True.”
“Glad we understand one another,” I mutter, watching him press the cloth to his side.
His jaw tightens.
My stomach tightens.
But they’re both unrelated. Completely, totally, utterly unrelated.
Fletcher and Xeon keep their focus on the pilot while Ewan pretends to be occupied with the window, which definitely means he’s listening to everything with laser-focused attention. The room is too small, too full of scent and breath and all the things I’ve been trying not to feel for days.
Cedar and leather from Fletcher.
Ice and steel from Xeon, softened by his presence.
Smoke and clove from Ewan.
And Kaito.
Burning wood and worn flannel under blood and rain and stubborn restraint.
That scent wriggles under my skin differently. It always has, too. From the school. From the blue house. From the rooftop. From the rain and that stupid, desperate kiss I initiated like a person actively trying to ruin her own life with impressive accuracy.