Sawyer
Iwake to whispers.
Muffled by the door, but sharp enough that they claw my brain from sleep. My eyes crack open to the dim light spilling from the hallway.
One of the voices lifts just high enough for coherence: “Sweet ellar?”
As I sit up, I squint with my head tilted toward the sound. It’s all nonsense, but the words are spoken with worry that yanks me awake. After a few moments, the sleepy haze clears.
Should we tell her?
I’m careful not to wake Luna as I lean forward. But the whispers abruptly cease. Hurried footsteps carry down the hall like they’re running away from something. Or someone.
A second of stillness follows before the door flies open.
Thorne’s huge frame casts shadows on the floor and blocks the entryway. My back knocks the headboard, and my hand finds Luna’s chest—stupid, he’d never hurt her. I swing a leg off the bed in preparation for a fight I somehow didn’t see coming.
But when he flips on the light and barrels in like a battering ram, it isn’t me he looks at first.
I follow his gaze to Luna, white-knuckled hands clinging to the blanket to her chest, her eyes wide and startled.
Thorne stills. The jealousy is so obvious it almost hums in the air, his jaw locking, the muscles in his throat ticking.
But it lasts only a second. Something darker pushes it aside.
“We have a problem,” he says. Not angry. Worried.
My stomach drops, but neither Thorne nor Luna seems to notice. I have a very good feeling I know what the problem is.
Luna jerks upright and pulls the blanket even higher. “What is it?”
Thorne steps further in and tosses a glance at the door. Before he speaks, I know his tone will be low. Secretive. “Something’s wrong with the Dregs.” He tosses another look at the door. “They’ve caught some kind of illness, and it’s bad, Luna. Several died overnight.”
Her eyes narrow in concentration. “The weak ones?”
Thorne’s mouth opens, but all he does is look at the door. He gets up to shut it, then walks around the bed so he can sit on the edge by her. He looks like he’s about to break the news that a close relative died, not disposable slaves.
Angel said it would take a week or two to die once symptoms started. But in their weakened state…
Luna’s right. The weak will go first.
But then again, how the fuck did they get ahold of bread? Maybe it’s not Angel’s doing. Maybe it’s parasites. Or a virus. The flu.
“The strong are getting sick too.” Thorne’s brow creases with worry.
“But… Luna, several children have come down with what appears to be the same illness. They can’t keep anything down, they’re spiking fevers…
So far, the Nurturers haven’t been worried, but if word gets out that the Dregs are dying… ”
The whites of Luna’s eyes expand as her lips part. “People will panic.”
Thorne nods, but the conversation is over. Luna’s already scrambling, swinging her legs out of bed.
I’m numb as I watch her shove into motion. Her hands fumble with her clothes, and she dresses as if speed alone can make the problem vanish. Her voice is sharp, decisive. “Make sure all Keepers know to keep their mouths shut. Anyone who doesn’t know at this point doesn’t need to know. Understood?”
Thorne nods. “Way ahead of you.”
He turns toward the door while Luna tugs on her boots. Before he makes it to the exit, she calls out his name.
He turns, his face a bottomless pit of worry.
“The Dregs’ bodies are weak and malnourished. That’s why it’s killing them.” She jerks her hair over her shoulder and peers up from her crouched position. “The children are strong. They’ll survive.”
Thorne lets out a breath so full, there’s no doubt he’s been holding it all morning. As though Luna just gave him permission to breathe. She speaks with authority, but he must not see what I do.
There’s too bright a sheen in her eyes. Her fingers tremble while she laces her boots. She’s trying not to panic. Trying to be her father’s daughter, unyielding, in control. But she’s human.
And she’s right to be afraid.
Acid singes the back of my throat. I swallow it down and keep my face stone, because I can’t tell her. Not until I have a way to fix this.
“I need to see the Dregs first.” Luna stands straight and tugs her sweater into place.
“Of course.” Thorne nods.
Luna goes to the door to meet Thorne but pauses with her back to me. She glances at me over her shoulder before turning and striding to the bed. She plants her hands on my head and yanks me toward her for a brutal, passionate kiss. It only lasts a second, but it sends the intended message.
I’m no longer her Dreg. Even in a rush of panic, she wants me to know it.
That only tightens the knot in my stomach.
“I’ll see you soon,” she tells me with a brush of her hand along my shoulder.
She pushes past Thorne without a glance, but the hurt on his face could be felt throughout the building. He lingers in the doorway a moment longer, like he wants to say something. His jaw works, eyes flicking from me to the hall, but then he mutters something under his breath and follows after her.
Silence crashes down in their wake.
I stay perfectly still, listening. Their footsteps echo down the corridor, Luna’s sharp and fast, Thorne’s heavier, deliberate. Only once the sound fades do I swing my legs off the bed.
My hands drag down my face. The taste of bile lingers at the back of my throat, and the echo of Luna’s kiss is hot on my lips. If she knew that I’m the reason those kids are coughing themselves half-dead, she’d scrub herself raw.
I shove the thought down; force myself upright. One step at a time. Get control of the chaos before it spreads too far.
Step number one: find Angel. He’s the only one who can help me stop this before the whole compound turns into a pit of plague.
I dress fast—pants, shoes, hoodie—and rake my hair back with shaking fingers.
The hall outside feels colder than it should. Two Cultivators loiter at the far end, whispering low. Their eyes snap to me before they skitter away.
I don’t slow. My strides carry me straight to Angel’s quarters, and the unease in my stomach curdles tighter with every step.
The door stands slightly ajar. I press a palm to it, push inside.
Empty.
The bed is made, the desk cleared. No sign of him.
“Fuck.” I scan the room like a wishful idiot then slam the door closed.
I flag down the first body I see—a Seraph with her arms full of linens. “Have you seen Mr. Sanchez?”
She blinks at me, surprised for some reason. Then she shrugs and shifts the load in her arms. “I think he already left for the day.”
He left…
Where the fuck would he have gone?
I force a nod, my throat tight. She bustles on unconcerned.
Turning on my heel, I head for the exit.
Hoping he isn’t hard to find.