Page 98 of Cold-Blooded Creatures

Six guards had blocked our way. Malaya and I had to stand on the side and wait for everyone to disarm the guards of their guns and toss them aside to avoid the rattle of bullets from raising alarms.

But even then, one against two hadn’t sounded like great odds in hand-to-hand combat.

And they hadn’t been.

Two guards had managed to attack me and Malaya. Mine hadn’t expected me to pull a knife, stab it in his thigh, and open his throat like Zion had taught me, but Malaya had been weaponless.

Zion had jumped in to help, and in the blur of the fight, had gotten his abdomen slashed. Yet he’d still managed to take care of that guard. The rest handled the remaining guards, and we’d moved through the malfunctioning gates without anyone chasing us, only us chasing time to bring him back to the compound.

I placed my forehead on mine and Zion’s hands. I was the one who’d decided we were taking Malaya with us. If I’d left her alone, his stomach would’ve remained intact.

But I couldn’t leave her like I’d done with Alora. I couldn’t condemn Malaya to a terrible life by walking away. Yet it meant my decision was the cause he’d gotten injured. And if the guard would’ve aimed better…

Cold fingers brushed my hair away from my temple. I raised my head. Splashing water told me Gedeon had finished stitching him and was washing up.

Zion murmured, “I would have taken her with us myself. It’s not your fault.”

I caught his wrist as he stroked my cheek. Lowering his arm, I traced the discoloration on his inner forearm, where his skin was wrinkled and matte in some areas and stretched out and shiny in others. “How did you get the scars?”

He stared at the ceiling, his muscles tense. “It’s a reminder of something stupid I did years ago.”

I transferred my weight to my left leg. “A reminder?”

“So I wouldn’t repeat it.” He pointedly focused on multiple lights dotting the ceiling.

And then it dawned on me.

Areminder.

Whatever had occurred, it wasn’t an accident.

“Who did this to you?”

Zion turned his head to face the white med supply closet lining the war, away from me. “It doesn’t matter.”

I licked my upper teeth to compose myself. “I will ask again. Who did this to you?”

Throwing the towel he’d used to dry himself over his shoulder, Gedeon came up to the other side of the table. “I did,” he stated.

I blinked.

Gulped.

Blinked again.

“What do you mean,youdid it?”

He pulled a stool on wheels closer and sat down, resting his elbows on the table and looking at Zion. A foreboding sense chilled me to my toes as he nodded. Unease permeating my bones shuffled my feet and my stiff-from-Zion’s-dried-blood dress scraped at my thighs.

Gedeon cleared his throat. “You know the story of our compound. How we came to be.”

“You told me it at dinner,” I carefully confirmed.

“But what I have not is that the previous leaders were my parents.” He heaved a sigh. “I grew up together with neighborhood kids, mostly Damia and Conall, and met Zion at school. He was a year younger than us, but somehow, we couldn’t get rid of him.”

Zion snorted. “Don’t pretend you tried.”

I fiddled with the neckline of my dress. The roughness of the fabric grounded me as their story conjured a visual of them running wild and free as kids, unconcerned with the worries adults tended to bear. It sounded dream-like.