Page 50 of Wraith (Deviant Assassin #1)
The scent of pine and damp earth fills my lungs as we pull up to the MC’s safe house.
It was a long drive, winding through the dense forest, and I opened the window so the cool air would help Wild stay awake.
The trees loom like silent sentinels, and the world narrows into shadows and whispers.
The air is thick here, weighted by the smell of motor oil, and the scent clinging to Wild’s leather jacket laid across the front seat next to me.
We ditched Blade’s car back at the house and took Wild’s will to help us stay off the radar.
We bought ourselves some time, but it’s running out quickly.
Once we were on a secluded road, we pulled over and I took over driving.
Concentrating on the road distracted me from watching Wild slip away, and Blade had better luck at keeping him awake.
Once Blade pissed Wild off enough he willed his eyes open, if for no other reason than to glare at him, he directed me to the safe house.
Just how safe is it though?
I kill the engine and glance around for anyone nearby, but I know no one followed us. The old cabin stands hidden among the trees, moss creeping up the walls, blending it into the night. It’s a place built for survival, a fortress in the middle of nowhere, far from prying eyes.
“Here,” Blade mutters, handing me a coil of wire as we get out. “We need to set up the perimeter.”
His eyes flick to Wild, who leans heavily against the car, his breathing shallow, face pale. He’s still bleeding from the gunshot, and I can’t tear my eyes from the dark red stain spread across his white Henley.
“Wild, sit down,” I snap, harsher than I mean to. Worry gnaws at me, twisting deep inside my gut. “You’re not in any shape to help.”
He smirks, but it’s weak, his usual bravado tempered by pain. “I’m fine, Kiera.”
The stubborn bastard pushes himself off the car, limping toward the cabin.
Blade’s watching him too, silent. But I see the tension in his frame, the flicker of something unspoken in his eyes highlighted by the damn twitch.
His hand reaches into the inside pocket of his navy blue peacoat, and I know he’s going for his gun.
He wants to off Wild.
“We don’t have time for that shit.” A sneer crosses his face, but I’m about to ‘ situational awareness’ his smug ass. “He’s the one with the safe house.”
His hand slowly pulls out of his coat and joins the other to cross over his chest. The sneer disappears, the eye twitch doesn’t. And I’m okay with that.
He’s here. He stayed. He even helped me keep Wild awake. Blade’s pissed, but he’s trying. Which is all I’ve wanted for so long.
“Nobody followed us, but I still want this place secured,” he says, his voice rough.
Bossy asshole. Too bad he’s right.
Together, we work quickly, rigging traps along the tree line: trip wires, spikes, anything we can find between Blade’s supplies from the go bags he shoved in the trunk—and various items around the property—to slow them down.
Every second ticks away in my mind like a countdown to something inevitable.
And all the while, Wild’s pushing himself too hard.
I can see it, his movements growing slower, more labored.
Inside the cabin, the air is musty and cool, tinged with the scent of aged wood and gunpowder.
There’s a small table, dusty and worn, a few chairs, and a couch.
The kitchen has two swinging wooden half-doors.
The kind one would find at the entrance of a saloon in an old western.
Across the room is a set of stairs leading up to the bedroom.
It has a king bed and a bathroom off to the side.
Unlike the posh family home we ran from, this place could be the set for a movie titled ‘Bad Man on the Run’.
There’s no refuge to be found here. It’s the sort of place where one makes a desperate last stand. Where we learn to lean on each other or die.
I glance at Wild, slumped against the wall now, his breath ragged. Boo paces back and forth in front of the unlit fireplace. Each lap he stops to assess Wild’s condition, and then runs a little more franticly, just as agitated as I am that Wild won’t rest.
“Damn it, sit down!” I slip under his arm and guide him to the couch, where he collapses.
Boo scampers up the worn fabric and onto the back, as I grab a towel and Blade’s first aid kit, ripping open packets of gauze and antiseptic.
Coagulating blood covers his chest, stomach, and hands.
Mine tremble as I peel the soaked fabric away, a sickening suction breaking the silence, revealing the wound beneath.
He’s unconscious again—or so I think. His chest still rises and falls, but his eyes are closed, and for a moment, my heart clenches, icy panic gripping me.
I’ve always believed the living were the only threat.
After all, it’s the living who’ve torn me to pieces.
But the dead, they’re just gone. Now, though, I’m faced with the possible death of someone who’s doing his best to worm his way into my bitter heart.
It just might be working. I can’t lose him. Not like this.
And for once, I realize… the dead can hurt me.