Page 79 of Feral Omega

Shadows flicker on the far wall, the light dancing and twisting. I crawl forward, gritting my teeth against the pain lancing through my arm with every movement. The cave mouth yawns ahead, the night sky a velvet backdrop studded with stars.

And there, hunched over a small fire, is Wraith. His massive frame blocks out the sky, a hulking silhouette backlit by the leaping flames. He feeds a huge chunk of splintered pine into the blaze, sparks swirling up to vanish against the darkness.

I freeze as his head snaps up, those pale eyes finding me instantly. Fear claws up my throat, choking me. The last thing I remember is his hand around my neck, squeezing, crushing, until the world went black.

He rises to his feet, a lumbering mountain of muscle and shadow. Puffs of steam fog from the filters and tubing of his gas mask. I can hear the whoosh of his breathing from the cave's entrance.

The entire front of his gray tank is drenched in blackened blood.

I scramble back, pressing myself against the cave wall, terror building in my chest. I whimper in spite of myself. But he stops short, a furrow appearing between his brows as he takes in my terror.

Shame and confusion war across his scarred features. His gaze drops to my arm, to the blood seeping through the bandage. He growls softly, the sound grating and harsh in the stillness.

"You... you did this?" I whisper, touching the dressing with tentative fingers.

He gives a sharp jerk of his chin. A nod. His version of it, anyway.

I sag back against the cold stone, my strength deserting me. The adrenaline bleeds out in a dizzying rush, my vision tunneling. I slump forward, bracing for the impact of the hard-packed earth.

But it never comes. Strong arms catch me, cradling me with a gentleness I didn't think Wraith capable of. Especially after earlier tonight. He lowers me to the ground, movements slow and deliberate like I'm a priceless treasure he's terrified of breaking.

He drapes the coat over me again, tucking it around my shoulders. Unslinging his pack, he offers me a canteen, holding it to my lips when my hands shake too badly to grip it.

The water is icy heaven on my parched throat. I drink greedily, rivulets escaping to trickle down my chin. Wraith watches me, something unreadable flickering in those pale eyes.

It’s not violence, whatever it is.

Next, he holds out a ration bar, the silvery wrapper glinting in the firelight. But I shake my head, stomach roiling at the thought of food. His brow furrows more, but he doesn't push, returning the bar to his pack.

He retreats to the opposite wall, folding his legs beneath him as he sits, still so hulking and huge even when he's not standing. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, slouched yet muscles coiled like springs. He fixes that pale gaze on me and watches me with unnerving intensity, brow still furrowed.

"Do you know where the others are?" I ask, my voice a thready rasp in the silence.

He shakes his head, a sharp jerk from side to side.

"Can you radio them? Let them know our location?"

Wraith points to his mask, then his throat, which is covered in pooling yet thin black fabric. Another shake of his head, more slow and deliberate this time. Then to his ear where the comm they all wear is notably missing.

It must have come off during the fight. Or before, during the raid. After seeing how chaotic and violent he is when he's fighting, I'm not surprised.

"Right," I murmur. "You can't talk."

Even if he did have his comm, it's not like I'd know how to work it, anyway.

And I got off that damn collar. The one connection the Ghosts had to track me.

To track us.

I shiver, the cold seeping into my bones despite the heavy jacket cocooning me. What happens now? Do I freeze to death in this godforsaken cave? Or does Wraith snap again, crushing the life from me with those brutal, bloodied hands?

Time blurs and stretches, the fire dying down to glowing embers. The temperature plummets, my breath pluming in icy clouds. But Wraith never shivers, never seems to feel the biting chill even without his coat, even as he goes to toss another huge chunk of wood onto the fire.

He comes back to keep watching me, steam curling from the vents of his mask with every rasping breath. It’s the only sound he makes when he’s not growling softly. He’s an immovable sentry, a silent guardian at the mouth of my tomb.

I can't feel my fingers, my toes. The shivering is constant now, a full-body racking that sends spikes of agony through my wounded arm.

I'm going to die here.

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