Page 26 of Beast in the Badlands
EMRY
I lean against Renn, breathless and alive in a way I haven't felt in weeks. He carries me toward an empty cot, each step a mix of determination and struggle, his muscles straining under my weight. My heart races—not just from the chaos we escaped but from the storm brewing around us.
As we reach the cot, the survivors gather, the remaining soldiers filing in from outside. Faces drawn tight with fear and uncertainty, they eye Renn with a mixture of awe and dread. I can feel the shift in energy—the moment they see him for what he is: a Reaper.
Panic ripples through the crowd like wildfire. Weapons raise instinctively; rifles and sidearms aimed at the hulking figure beside me.
“He’s one of them!” a younger soldier shouts, voice cracking with terror. “We’re dead if we let him stay!”
The accusation hits hard. I wrestle free from Renn's grip, determination pushing me to my feet. I place myself squarely between him and the crowd, trying to radiate calm despite my own racing pulse.
“He just saved your lives,” I snap, my voice ringing out clear against the clamor.
Silence falls for a heartbeat as they weigh my words. The tension thickens like smoke; their gazes flicker from me to Renn, assessing this monstrous savior who just tore through their enemies without mercy. Fear lingers in their eyes—he’s not just any Reaper; he’s a warrior forged in violence.
Yet here he stands, battered yet unyielding beside me, embodying strength that feels both foreign and familiar all at once.
A heavy-set woman clutches her child close, eyes wide with fear as she peers around me at Renn. The child looks up at her mother with confusion painted across his tiny features—he doesn’t understand why this being who saved us could also be viewed as danger.
“Emry,” Renn’s low growl breaks through my thoughts.
His voice carries an edge of urgency mixed with something softer—an appeal buried beneath layers of pain and power. It resonates deep within me; I want to believe it so desperately.
They hesitate but remain terrified, eyes glued to Renn like he’s a bomb about to go off—volatile yet oddly mesmerizing. Every heartbeat feels crucial now; it hangs in the air like an unsaid prayer, teetering on the brink of something new or something catastrophic.
I stand my ground, heart hammering against my ribs. The weight of their fear presses down, heavy and suffocating. They don’t understand him.
Renn’s expression remains blank, a mask carved from stone.
He doesn’t flinch at their hostile glares or the accusations thrown like arrows.
My heart aches—he isn’t here for them. He came for me, and that makes him dangerous in ways I can’t articulate.
I take a deep breath, trying to channel my fear into something more productive.
“Get back,” I say, raising my voice slightly. “He’s not your enemy.”
Their stares harden; the younger soldier looks like he might pull the trigger any second.
“He’s one of them! How do we know he won’t turn on us?”
I step forward, frustration boiling within me.
“Look at him!” I shout back, gesturing to Renn as he stands tall despite the blood smeared across his skin and torn clothes. “He just fought through an entire battalion to save us! If you want to fight him, then go ahead—but know that you’ll have to go through me first!”
That earns a few nervous glances among the group. It feels like a fragile victory when Renn finally allows me to push him into a chair in the corner of the tent. He winces as he sits down; pain flickers across his face before he masks it again with that unyielding stoicism.
“Sit still,” I order, my voice firm as I rummage through my supplies.
His legs throb with every heartbeat, old wounds aggravated from the fight and our chaotic escape. I pull out a small vial of surgical sealant, feeling the familiar weight of urgency settle over me. But as soon as it comes into view, murmurs rise behind us.
“Are you really wasting supplies on that thing?” someone protests, disdain dripping from their tone.
Renn barely glances at them—he couldn’t care less about their opinions or judgment—and that infuriates me further.
I whip around to face the crowd again, fire sparking in my gut. “You want to do this work? You want to run this clinic? No? Then shut the fuck up or get the fuck out.”
The room quiets under my command as I kneel beside Renn again, focusing on the task at hand.
I can feel his eyes on me, assessing not just my movements but also the energy in the air around us.
He isn’t here for them. He came for me. That’s what makes him dangerous.
Because he'd destroy them in the blink of an eye if he thought they were a threat to me. That’s also what makes my heart ache.
As I clean and stitch a deep gash along his ribs—careful yet swift—I keep my voice low so only he can hear. “You shouldn’t have come.”
He turns his head slightly toward me, sharp red eyes piercing through layers of exhaustion and grit. “I’m not letting you die,” he replies simply.
I shake my head incredulously while threading needle through flesh—this beast covered in blood wants to worry about a silly cut on my head? It’s barely bleeding now anyway.
“Now,” he continues, his tone shifting into something more commanding, “stop fussing over me.”
“Letting you bleed out is hardly fussing,” I mutter under my breath as I finish stitching up his side.
With deft fingers, he reaches for the cut near my temple—a fresh bruise swelling beneath an angry red mark—and pulls out antiseptic supplies before I can protest.
“Hold still,” he instructs as if I’m some unruly patient instead of a fellow survivor who knows how this game works far too well.
“I’m fine,” I insist lightly but let him work anyway because… well, because it feels nice having him so close again.
My heart swells with absurd affection at this strange moment—the Reaper cares more about patching me up than tending to his own wounds while surrounded by potential enemies who would rather see him dead than saved.