Unleashed

Still. My body count is at two. I wince. Is this going to become a thing? Where I need to start keeping count? Is everyone right and I have a knack for it? My stomach knots and I compress my lips, afraid I’m going to be sick.

Caden moves in front of me, blocking me from Marcus’s gaze, and it’s a relief. “Not happening, Marcus.”

“All right. Why don’t you all leave us now?” Phelps announces in a voice that declares he’s finished with the little drama unfolding in his infirmary. “We’ve got to get her cleaned up and check on that shoulder.” Phelps closes in on me, Rhiannon with him. Together, they help me to my feet. I whimper when she lifts my arm to drape it over her shoulder. I used to think I had a pretty good pain tolerance, but now I realize I was giving myself too much credit.

I gaze toward the door, and my heart sinks at the distance. It seems so far away. I want to weep when I think of the walk stretching from here to the showers.

Then suddenly I’m not thinking about it at all, because I’m swept off my feet into a pair of arms that are becoming far too familiar. Too strong. Too comforting.

“What are you doing?” My fingers clutch Caden’s shirt like I need to hang on in case he drops me. The warmth and breadth of his chest singes my fingers, and I snatch my hand away.

Faces blur as he carries me from the room, Phelps and Rhiannon following. The air is cooler outside the infirmary, less sour.

“What are you doing” I demand a second time, glaring at his profile.

“Getting you to the shower sometime this decade.” His gaze dips to mine, and suddenly the heat washing through me has nothing to do with adrenaline or outrage. Especially when his lips lift in a half smile. “You’re welcome.”

I jerk my gaze away. He’s always doing that. Saying something that makes me feel like I should be grateful to him. As if we should be friendly with each other—if not actual friends. Looking at me with eyes that make me feel . . . well. They make me feel.

“I’m sorry I’m such a burden,” I grumble.

His hands flex where they hold me. My skin shrinks at the sensation, and I pull inside myself. “It’s not a problem.”

I tuck my hands under my sides, squeezing myself tighter, trying to hold myself apart from him as we head down the hallway.

I feel his eyes on me. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I know that. Even though he’s a carrier and someone in his flock just tried to kill me, I know that. Guys who rescue girls from certain death don’t then hurt them. But for some reason he makes me uncomfortable anyway. “I don’t like being touched.”

“I noticed. Is that a chronic condition?”

“Meaning have I always been this way?” I think about the girl I used to be before her life ended. She loved people. Touching didn’t scare her. If anything, she was a hugger. “It might surprise you to know that I was homecoming queen.” I don’t know why I throw this out there. Maybe for shock value.

His eyes glow like the sunset, all amber and red tones buried in the brown, and I know he’s amused. I shake my head and squeeze myself a little tighter. How can he find amusement in anything? He lives in an underground bunker because the world up top rejected him. Us. “Actually, that doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Liar.”

“No. I can see you in a dress like some sort of beautiful princess. With some lame guy—let me guess, quarterback?”

“Rugby captain,” I supply.

He shrugs. “Close.” His gaze fastens on my face in a way that makes my skin flush. His voice drops low. Husky. “I see past this tough armor you wear. Homecoming princess. Admired by friends. Sweet. Confident. Boys couldn’t help but stare. And in secret, you jammed out to Bob Dylan and enjoyed a juicy cheeseburger. Let me guess. Bacon?”

I nod. “With onion rings.”

“I knew it.” His smile widens, showing off his straight white teeth.

I swallow and wince at the pain in my throat, regretting ever letting him know that I heard him singing. “Yeah. Not much of a princess anymore, though, am I?” I motion to my blood-caked self and arch my throat where the imprint circles me like a collar. My dark, hacked-off hair no doubt completes my ensemble. “This is me now, okay? And I don’t like to be touched or handled, so stop it with everything.” Stop the smiles. Stop making me like you.

His eyes darken, the sunlight there dimming. “You’re overdoing it. Quit talking.”

I clamp my lips shut. He’s right. I shouldn’t try to talk. Tabatha watches us with a bemused look on her face as we pass. Several others are awake, emerging from their rooms, standing in the open space of the main floor, gawking at the sight of me, covered in blood.

Once we’re in the showers, he deposits me on one of the long benches. He glances at Rhiannon and Phelps. “Got this?”

“Sure.” The doctor waves him off. “The tribe is restless. They need you out there herding them back to bed. God knows you can’t leave them to Marcus, and Terrence isn’t exactly one for many words. He’s probably already back in the controls room.”

Caden nods like he understands and moves to go. Suddenly he stops and turns back to me. My neck falls back to look up at him, and I wince. Even that simple movement stretches my bruised flesh uncomfortably.

His expression is serious, intent. “I’m sorry this happened to you. It shouldn’t have happened here. It won’t again.” His deep voice is like a physical touch, and I shiver.