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Eden

Choose books not war.

Two weeks after leaving Bristlebrook

“It was molten oil. Bentley always wanted to try it,” Arthur explains, his voice crisp and satisfied coming from the satellite phone on the table. “So when they came down that alley—oh, ho! They got a shock. That took out three, maybe four, if he doesn’t survive the burns.”

“Any casualties on your end?” Dom asks grimly, leaning over the table.

Beau is curled around me, and we’re both sitting on the floor of Dom’s enormous tent.

Lucky, Jasper, and Jayk are all sprawled around us, listening, in their full Ranger kits.

We arrived at the farmlands a week ago, and it’s been one of the longest, most grueling weeks of my life, both physically and emotionally.

It’s become woefully obvious that the Reapers are incompetent at everything besides sweet-talking and farming.

And the Sinners have already attacked Red Zone three times.

“None. One burned hand and another caught some shrapnel but nothing serious,” Arthur replies. “The minefields took out more than ten of theirs. We’re locked in here, don’t you worry about us. We’ll follow instructions.”

Relief breaks over Dom’s face, and he straightens, swiping up the phone. “Good work, Arthur. We’ll touch base same time tomorrow. Anything unexpected comes up, you call ASAP. We can be there in three hours.”

“It won’t, Dom. It’s a good system,” Arthur soothes, his voice gentling, and I smile, the lump in my throat growing thicker.

Arthur is a kind, intelligent, unexpectedly brave man. I hate that he’s caught up in all of this. He should be in my book club, arguing with me over historical inaccuracies in Regency novels, not pouring molten oil on ruthlessly violent men.

“We radioed Bristlebrook, Arthur,” I speak up huskily, and Dom walks over to hand me the phone. “Soren is doing well there. I think you were right not to move him.”

I pause, feeling my brutes’ eyes on me. This is only the beginning. There’s so much risk. Anything could happen to him, or to any of us.

“Please keep yourself safe,” I murmur.

“You too, Eden,” he tells me warmly, and we end the call a moment later.

The overpowering scent of flowers has soaked into the tent, and it’s making my stomach permanently queasy.

Am I going to worry every time that each call will be the last?

Beau’s stroking hands coax me to blink and, looking up, I realize they’re all watching me as I stare at the phone.

“I’m sorry. I’m okay. I was just...” I look around at my brutes’ kind, understanding faces, and I lift my chin. “I’m listening. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that we need to get ready,” Dom says grimly, his eyes meeting mine. “I was saying that. .. we’re next.”