“When would I have done that? I’ve been escorted anytime I’ve ever left this room.” I snort. “And why? Just for the pleasure of killing him?”
Marcus shook his head. “There must have been some reason my cousin came in here.”
That’s right. Hoyt was his cousin. Great. Now this guy will never get off my case.
“I don’t know why he wanted to kill me.” I ignore the way every word I utter feels like a razor slashing into my windpipe. “Maybe he just wanted to kill me because, oh, I don’t know”—I angle my head to the side and look from Marcus to Caden—“he’s a carrier and that’s what carriers do?”
This shuts them up. They look to each other and back to me again.
“That’s not what we believe here,” Caden says, and he actually looks slightly disappointed in me. “We don’t prejudge.”
I blink. “So this is some perfect utopia you have here then, is that it? Really? How’s that working out?” I motion to myself as evidence. “And that’s why you locked me in? Why you guard new carriers? Right.”
Marcus’s expression shifts from angry into something mild, but there’s a sly cunning there, just beneath the surface. It reminds me of so many other carriers to cross my path lately. I suppose there is uniformity, a sameness to be found within people whose moral compass isn’t quite set right. Not a comfort, though. I would actually prefer open hostility.
“Maybe it’s you,” Marcus suggests in a silky voice. “Maybe Hoyt recognized a bad seed. Maybe he saw something in you that needed eliminating.”
“Marcus,” Caden warns.
“She’s not all she seems, Anderson. You might be blinded by a pretty face, but I’m not. Why don’t you let me handle her? I think you’ve lost objectivity.”
I suck in a tight breath, waiting, watching. Tension feathers Caden’s jaw before he speaks. “And you just lost your cousin. You’re lacking objectivity, too.”
Terrence nods in agreement beside them, but I am stuck on one word. Too. As in Caden agrees with him that he has no objectivity when it comes to me?
“Give her to me,” Marcus insists. The hands curling at his sides tell me he’s not that unlike his cousin. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
A growl escapes me. Builds up inside my chest. For some reason my primitive side surfaces around him. Or maybe that’s just an excuse. Maybe it’s just a result of coming out on top of a death match not even a half hour ago. Maybe this is my norm from here on out. A bracing thought, but nothing that really shakes the foundations of my world. This is what I’ve become. I kill when I need to.
Like before.
And yet not like before. Yes, I just killed someone, but this time is different.
Still. My body count is at two. I wince. Is this going to become a thing? Where I need to start keeping count? Is everyone right and I have a knack for it? My stomach knots and I compress my lips, afraid I’m going to be sick.
Caden moves in front of me, blocking me from Marcus’s gaze, and it’s a relief. “Not happening, Marcus.”
“All right. Why don’t you all leave us now?” Phelps announces in a voice that declares he’s finished with the little drama unfolding in his infirmary. “We’ve got to get her cleaned up and check on that shoulder.” Phelps closes in on me, Rhiannon with him. Together, they help me to my feet. I whimper when she lifts my arm to drape it over her shoulder. I used to think I had a pretty good pain tolerance, but now I realize I was giving myself too much credit.
I gaze toward the door, and my heart sinks at the distance. It seems so far away. I want to weep when I think of the walk stretching from here to the showers.
Then suddenly I’m not thinking about it at all, because I’m swept off my feet into a pair of arms that are becoming far too familiar. Too strong. Too comforting.
“What are you doing?” My fingers clutch Caden’s shirt like I need to hang on in case he drops me. The warmth and breadth of his chest singes my fingers, and I snatch my hand away.
Faces blur as he carries me from the room, Phelps and Rhiannon following. The air is cooler outside the infirmary, less sour.
“What are you doing” I demand a second time, glaring at his profile.
“Getting you to the shower sometime this decade.” His gaze dips to mine, and suddenly the heat washing through me has nothing to do with adrenaline or outrage. Especially when his lips lift in a half smile. “You’re welcome.”
I jerk my gaze away. He’s always doing that. Saying something that makes me feel like I should be grateful to him. As if we should be friendly with each other—if not actual friends. Looking at me with eyes that make me feel . . . well. They make me feel.
“I’m sorry I’m such a burden,” I grumble.
His hands flex where they hold me. My skin shrinks at the sensation, and I pull inside myself. “It’s not a problem.”
I tuck my hands under my sides, squeezing myself tighter, trying to hold myself apart from him as we head down the hallway.
I feel his eyes on me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I know that. Even though he’s a carrier and someone in his flock just tried to kill me, I know that. Guys who rescue girls from certain death don’t then hurt them. But for some reason he makes me uncomfortable anyway. “I don’t like being touched.”
“I noticed. Is that a chronic condition?”
“Meaning have I always been this way?” I think about the girl I used to be before her life ended. She loved people. Touching didn’t scare her. If anything, she was a hugger. “It might surprise you to know that I was homecoming queen.” I don’t know why I throw this out there. Maybe for shock value.
His eyes glow like the sunset, all amber and red tones buried in the brown, and I know he’s amused. I shake my head and squeeze myself a little tighter. How can he find amusement in anything? He lives in an underground bunker because the world up top rejected him. Us. “Actually, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”
“Liar.”
“No. I can see you in a dress like some sort of beautiful princess. With some lame guy—let me guess, quarterback?”
“Rugby captain,” I supply.
He shrugs. “Close.” His gaze fastens on my face in a way that makes my skin flush. His voice drops low. Husky. “I see past this tough armor you wear. Homecoming princess. Admired by friends. Sweet. Confident. Boys couldn’t help but stare. And in secret, you jammed out to Bob Dylan and enjoyed a juicy cheeseburger. Let me guess. Bacon?”
I nod. “With onion rings.”
“I knew it.” His smile widens, showing off his straight white teeth.
I swallow and wince at the pain in my throat, regretting ever letting him know that I heard him singing. “Yeah. Not much of a princess anymore, though, am I?” I motion to my blood-caked self and arch my throat where the imprint circles me like a collar. My dark, hacked-off hair no doubt completes my ensemble. “This is me now, okay? And I don’t like to be touched or handled, so stop it with everything.” Stop the smiles. Stop making me like you.
His eyes darken, the sunlight there dimming. “You’re overdoing it. Quit talking.”
I clamp my lips shut. He’s right. I shouldn’t try to talk. Tabatha watches us with a bemused look on her face as we pass. Several others are awake, emerging from their rooms, standing in the open space of the main floor, gawking at the sight of me, covered in blood.
Once we’re in the showers, he deposits me on one of the long benches. He glances at Rhiannon and Phelps. “Got this?”
“Sure.” The doctor waves him off. “The tribe is restless. They need you out there herding them back to bed. God knows you can’t leave them to Marcus, and Terrence isn’t exactly one for many words. He’s probably already back in the controls room.”
Caden nods like he understands and moves to go. Suddenly he stops and turns back to me. My neck falls back to look up at him, and I wince. Even that simple movement stretches my bruised flesh uncomfortably.
His expression is serious,
intent. “I’m sorry this happened to you. It shouldn’t have happened here. It won’t again.” His deep voice is like a physical touch, and I shiver.
I moisten my cracked lips and try not to let his words weave a spell around me. I can’t drop my guard again. Hoyt attacking me proves that. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
The skin near his eye jumps. “I don’t.”
And then he’s gone. Rhiannon turns on the shower, and soon steam fills the space. I stare at the door where Caden disappeared as she helps me from my clothes. They hit the floor with a heavy smack, ruined. From the corner of my eye I see Phelps open his kit and start taking out what he’ll need to re-stitch my wound. I sigh and brace myself.
More pain ahead.
* * *
Gentlemen, ladies, I know it took a great deal of risk to get here. A risk that will not diminish as we come together for these talks. The reason you’re here is because you’ve sacrificed so much already. You are true patriots. Now let us get to the heart of the matter. How do we take down Wainwright?
—Private meeting between General Dumont and fellow Resistance leaders
Undisclosed location in the United States
TWELVE
THEY DON’T TAKE ME BACK TO THE INFIRMARY. After Phelps finishes with me, I’m assigned a cell. With a roommate. Apparently they sleep two to a room. Except for the General and captains. They have their own rooms, Rhiannon explains as she escorts me to my new quarters.
Each room contains bunk beds. Like at a summer camp. Or prison. My roommate is Junie. She’s a scout like Tabatha. Only she’s really friendly and talkative. She’s like a normal teenager. Well, except I learn she’s twenty-three. She doesn’t look it, though. She’s small and fine-boned and looks like she could be fifteen. She hops around the room like some kind of quick-moving ninja, making space for me. Not that she has a lot of stuff to begin with.
She immediately offers me the bottom bed. I’m in no condition to climb to the top one.
“Thanks. I just need a bed,” I tell her, sighing as I sink onto the bottom bunk. The shower really wore me out. Oh, and nearly getting choked out. “And sleep.”
“Of course,” she replies.
“Phelps will check on her in the morning,” Rhiannon informs her before leaving.
Pulling the cool sheet over myself, I lie there for a moment, considering how completely unbothered I am to find myself in a strange new room with another stranger. I guess I’m too tired to care. And my body aches. Plus, Phelps took pity and gave me something for the pain. I feel that starting to work its magic and relaxing me. I know I should have resisted. I need my wits, but I figure the odds are on my side. Two attempts on my life in one night? Could I be that unlucky?
Junie turns out the light and bounds with ease to the top bunk. I guess I see why she’s a scout. I jerk a little when she hangs upside down, dangling her head near mine, twin braids flopping like dark ropes. “Get some rest. I can’t believe Hoyt attacked you . . . well, I kind of can. He was a little off. Rhiannon dubbed him a creeper the day he first arrived here.”
“Yeah.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose between my fingers, trying to assuage the ache starting to form there.
“You look beat. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, relieved.
“Good night,” she chirps.
“Night.” My eyes shut, and instantly I’m asleep.
I wake to a hand on my brow. My vision clears to see Phelps leaning over me. I yank away, unable to help myself.
“Now there,” he chides. “Just making sure your fever hasn’t returned. You haven’t been very kind to that shoulder. Hopefully you won’t get an infection.”
I resist the urge to bite out that it wasn’t me being unkind to my shoulder but the world in general, but then I catch sight of Caden hovering near the door to the room, his arms crossed over his chest as he observes the exchange. I forget about everything else in the face of his watchful gaze.
“Hey,” Caden greets me, unfolding his arms. His army-green T-shirt nicely molds to his firm chest. “You slept through breakfast. Want me to call for takeout? I know this great Thai place.”
Phelps chuckles. I resist smiling. Holding silent, I let the doctor poke and prod me as he examines my shoulder. He changes the bandages and makes a happy humming sound, apparently satisfied that it didn’t bleed too much overnight.
I glance around the room, confirming what I already suspected. Junie isn’t here.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost noon.”
I shake my head. “I don’t usually sleep so late.” It shouldn’t matter, but it’s one more thought in the chaos of my mind. I blow out a breath, wishing I could silence all of it.
“You had a rough night. It’s allowed.”
Phelps stands. “That should do it. I would stay in bed and rest today. Let me or Rhiannon know if it starts bleeding through the bandage. I’ll check on you later.”
I nod.
Phelps looks at Caden. “Will she be staying in here?”
“I don’t want to go back to the infirmary,” I interrupt, realizing that my move here might have been temporary. I’m sure they’ve cleaned everything up. Still, I don’t want to set foot in that place again. The blood flashes in my mind. Thick, dark as tar.
“Would you prefer to stay here? With Junie?” Caden trains his gaze on me. Surprising, really, that he’s giving me a say. I haven’t had a say in anything since we met.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Silence stretches as we stare at each other, assessing.
Phelps looks between us, and there’s speculation in his gaze. With a shrug, he grabs his bag and leaves the room.
It’s just the two of us now. I glance around so I don’t have to look at him, but I can feel his attention focused squarely on me. Too bad my roommate isn’t around. “Where’s Junie?”
“Scouting.”
My gaze snaps back to him. “You mean outside the compound?” Impatience snakes through me. I want to be outside. I want to be gone from here. After last night, I want this more than anything else. That sensation of being trapped down here is stronger than ever. “I thought you weren’t sending out any people—”
“Across the river?” he finishes for me. “No, we’re not right now.”
“But Junie—”
“She scouts. That’s what she does. She’s good at it. Sending convoys to Mexico isn’t the only thing we do here. We gather supplies, monitor patrols. I’m leading a group out tomorrow to—”
Hope swells in my chest. “But you just said—”
“I’m staying stateside.” And just like that, my hope deflates. “There’s a station east of here that Marcus wants to check out,” he adds.
At my questioning look, he explains, “It’s a checkpoint—went up after the Agency partnered with Border Patrol. If I let Marcus go on his own, he’ll probably blow the place up and the Feds will rain down on us afterward. The goal is to make an impact that doesn’t beg for them to use every bit of manpower at their disposal to track us and wipe us out. At least that’s my goal. Not always so with Marcus.”
“So you’re going along to keep him on a leash?”
“Something like that.”
I scan him. Hands half-buried in his pockets, even with his forearms tense, he looks . . . relaxed. Not at all like someone about to go on a dangerous mission. “Why not just let him blow it up? They can search for you all they want. You’re underground. They want us dead. Or in cages.” I sweep a hand around us. “They’ve forced us to hide like fugitives.”
He studies me for a moment. “You think I should do that? Let dozens of people die? They can’t all be bad, can they?”
I snort, hating that he’s making me feel small and . . . wrong. “They think we’re all bad. Evil.”
He pushes off the doorjamb and approaches me where I recline on the bed. “You’re not as merciless as you act.”
This annoys me. I ang
le my head sharply. “All you need to know about me is this.” I point to my neck. It’s funny how I actually believe that now. I didn’t at first. I fought so hard to deny that HTS determined anything about me at all. In so short a time, I’ve become a realist. But then I had to. Optimism can get you killed. “Isn’t that enough?”
He smiles again, his lips curling like some kind of sexy lead singer in a boy band, and I really dislike him right then. That he can look so normal. Like a boy I would have liked in another place, another time.
“I think there’s more to you than that, Homecoming Queen.”
My hands clench at my side. I’ve already shared too much.
His gaze flicks to my hands, then back to my face. “Not gonna let me in anymore, huh?” With a sigh, he turns and opens the door to my room—my cell. “Maybe when I get back we can talk some more.”
“About leaving and finding my friends?”
He hesitates, one hand on the doorknob. “All right.”
“All right?” This is the last thing I expect him to say.
He nods. “I’m not the bad guy. Maybe you’ll believe that someday.”
I do already. “All I know is that I need to sleep with one eye open here.”
“And that I saved your life,” he reminds me, his gaze so open, guileless. “You know that, too. I can be your friend.”
“I don’t need a friend. I already have friends. I just need to get back to them.”
He does that smiling thing with his mouth again. What does he have to be happy about? “Why are you so . . .” I grope for the word. Happy. Pleasant. Instead, I just go with, “Don’t you ever get mad?”
He shrugs. “Sure. Everyone does. You don’t have to be a carrier to feel that emotion.”
“But you are,” I remind him. “A carrier.” So how come I haven’t seen a whiff of true anger from him? Not a raised voice, not the flash of fury in his eyes. Nothing.
Something passes over his face. For a moment, he looks uneasy, but then he blinks and it’s gone. “We all handle anger . . . stress . . . differently.”