Page 97

Eden

If you move fast enough,

your feelings can’t catch you.

Sawyer hasn’t had any water. A cup is in my hand, and I’m passing it over before I’ve finished the thought.

Soft, male sobs echo through the sitting room, like razors scraping down my spine.

“Has anyone seen the second set of scalpels?” Deanna calls from the other side of the sitting room, where she’s bent over a thick-set Reaper.

I speak up before anyone can give her the wrong answer, banishing the sobs with guilty, vicious force.

“Beau had to use them. They were in the autoclave.” I glance up at the clock on the wall. “They should be ready now. Jada, can you get them for Deanna? Clare’s covering the med bay. She’ll show you where they are.”

Jada startles out of her dazed staring at the wounded and nods at me. She pushes off the doorway and rushes toward the hall.

When I turn back, I see a Reaper trying to stand up from his bed and stride over to him.

It takes several minutes of arguing to convince him that he, in fact, cannot walk on a shattered ankle by himself, no matter how much he needs to use the little boy’s room.

David, a reed thin but surprisingly strong Reaper, comes over when I call and helps the injured man to the downstairs toilet.

David has been helpful with the heavy lifting over the last few hours.

I direct two more Reapers upstairs to the games room for sleep, then drag out a warmed towel for Anaiyah, who has trailed in from the storm outside, her teeth chattering.

On and on it goes.

My feet ache, and I haven’t had enough sleep the last few nights, but the little discomforts are far away as I work.

And every time I pause, those sobs chase me back into action.

I turn again, looking for the next task. It’s getting quieter, but there has to be more to do. Someone else will need a bed or food or medicine or supplies or?—

The sound of weeping invades my space again.

Somehow, it’s louder than the groans of the injured, or the muttered conversation. It’s more violent than the rain outside as it lashes the windows.

The rain that even now is leaking through the poorly taped holes.

Holes that I need to patch.

Leaks can turn into deluges if they’re not patched.

The thoughts come hard and disjointed, turning rapidly from observation to action with no room for detours.

Pivoting, I try to think what I can use to fix the glass—anything to shore it up for just a few hours more—when I see Pete, curled up in the corner of the sitting room. His head is bent, his cap in his hand, and his shoulders shake as he cries with his whole body.

I stop hard when I see him.

His sounds engulf me.

Alastair’s rifle fills my mind. His cold, brutal calm as Buck tipped onto the pikes.

I grip my nightdress, shoring myself up everywhere I’m leaking. I don’t get to keep running away. Not from this.

I lined up the shot.

I deserve to face the damage.

With shaking hands, I move to one of the tables I set up earlier and pour a cup of tea. It’s not steaming anymore, and there are too many dregs muddying the lukewarm water, but it gives me something to do with my hands. I can offer Pete something, even if it isn’t much.

Quietly, I walk over to Pete and sink down. I shift back against the wall until I’m sitting beside him in silent, inadequate comfort. He sobs harder, his dirty, wiry body turning into my side like he’s desperate for the warmth.

Or maybe just desperate not to be alone.

As he weeps, I take in the wounded on the floor.

The bullet wounds and bandages. The streaks on the floorboards where I mopped up blood.

Beau and Deanna with their heads bent together over gaping flesh that closes, stitch by stitch.

So many pained, sleeping faces—the dirt cleaned off them at least, because I could do that much.

So much for our resistance.

Alastair blew it to pieces in just one night.

Awful, thick feelings fill my throat as I let Pete cry into my shoulder like he’s a child, until he’s finally able to sit up, wiping his tears on a filthy sleeve. He chokes out his gratitude and takes the teacup and saucer from my numb fingers.

The porcelain clatters in his shaky grip.

After he takes a gulp, he stares down at the sludgy dregs like they might tell his fortune.

“Buck and me, we were a team, you know?” Pete’s face is red raw, and I can’t look at him directly.

I just stare ahead, listening to the words.

Like listening is its own form of self-flagellation.

“Me and him, it was always us. We weren’t good at much of anything, you know, but we were together.

Came in together, too, from two towns over, and Sawyer knew.

He knew. He never once split us up.” He drags a sleeve across his wet nose, and his smile is full of tears.

“Buck... we kept mucking up the planting. But Sawyer, he thought... he liked to bring us up to meet new folks passin’ through.

Said we were good. Friendly-like. Made it so maybe they didn’t want to fight none.

We... we were good at makin’ friends.

” His lip trembles. “It was a good job for us.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my gut writhing.

Pete’s voice cracks. “What am I gonna do now? I can’t bring anyone in without Buck. No one’s gonna trust my ugly mug. No one . What if Sawyer doesn’t need me anymore?”

The cup rattles in his hands as a new round of sobs shakes him.

I think I’m going to throw up.

I stand up. “I... let me get you some tissues.”

Pete lifts his face, and it’s bloated. Swollen with tears.

I back up. Hit the wall. I turn, feeling for the doorway.

Another crack of thunder hits, and the lightning flashes outside, briefly illuminating the room.

The kitchen. If I can just get to the kitchen, then I can get tissues, and then findsomething for those damn holes , and...

“Stop, pet.”

Dom’s wide, heavy hand catches my shoulder, steadying me before I crash into him.

I stare at his chest—at the crimson shirt that looks so much like the blood I mopped earlier. Breathing hard, I don’t look up. I can feel his assessing gaze.

Dom always sees too much.

So I keep my voice calm. “No. Sorry, sir. I need to get tissues. Actually, you could help. Do you know where there might be anything I could use to patch the doors? There’s water getting in.”

Dom loosens his grip on my arm, but his words might as well be a vise.

“Forget the doors.” He releases my arm, and his fingers wrap around my wrist. “Come with me, pet. You need bed.”

The abrupt feeling of his skin on mine trips my mental rush, sending me staggering for a brief, dizzying moment.

I look down at his rough hand—the nicks and scars, the dark hair dusting the back of it, the strong fingers encasing my wrist. Not holding my hand, where our fingers might twine together. He took my wrist .

To take.

To lead.

I flex my fingers, and his grip tightens, almost imperceptibly.

My next shiver is delicate, chasing over my scalp.

Oddly, my miserable thoughts begin to slow.

They slow enough for me to remember I’m in a room full of people with a house full of tasks, besieged by a forest full of Sinners.

Sinners like Alastair.

Who I might as well have invited to this bloodbath.

“I’m sorry, Dom. I have too much to do,” I say again, more firmly—using his name for good measure, since he doesn’t seem to be getting the point.

Surreptitiously, I tug my wrist.

His grip doesn’t loosen.

Dom’s dark brow lifts, and he doesn’t even have the grace to put a challenge in it.

There’s only silent expectation.

“Alastair is outside ,” I try again, fighting to keep from raising my voice. “Attacking us. Firing on us. I need to?—”

“He’s not firing right now,” Dom breaks in, calm. He looks at me with weighty consideration. “It’s raining. Jayk has it covered. Lucky and Jasper are on watch. You can stop, Eden. Take a break.”

The order brooks no argument, and mine suddenly sticks in my throat. His hand burns against my wrist.

Then I hear Pete sniffle, and I flinch.

“Eden.” Beau’s call across the room turns my head.

He’s holding a light for Deanna while she sutures the Reaper in front of them, but his eyes are on me.

“Darlin’, Dom’s right. We’ve got everything under control here now.

Most everyone is either on watch outside or they’re getting some rest before their turn.

You got us all organized, so we’re doing okay.

Take some time.” His soft, coaxing voice turns grim, and he sighs as Deanna finishes up. “We’re going to need you tomorrow.”

My guilt pulses in my throat.

But, looking around, I see he’s right. Most of the wounded are sleeping. Civilians have turned in for bed. A chill seeps through the doors—through my shirt and silk nightdress, right into my bones. It’s quiet.

But even the thought of sleep right now is impossible.

Lightning flashes again, and it shines over every patient golden hue in Dom’s eyes.

My voice comes out too small when I whisper, “I don’t have a bed.”

Dom’s face softens, and his grip on my wrist grows tight.

It’s the only point of heat in this bitterly cold room.

“Come with me, pet. I have you.”