Page 88 of Beehive

“Where . . . where are we?”

“An old apartment,” I said. “We had to leave the safe house. It wasn’t safe.”

I swallowed again, throat tight.

Thomas’s eyes widened, then he closed them, grimacing. I knew what that look meant. Thomas opened his eyes again and said nothing for a moment, just breathed in shallow, uneven draughts.

I laid my hand on his good shoulder. “Visla’s gone,” I said. “She betrayed us, maybe even arranged the ambush. I’m not sure. She was about to shoot you when . . .”

Words fled.

Even trying to say it out loud made my stomach twist.

We trusted her. We relied on her intel. Now all of that was rubble, like so much else in this damned city.

Thomas’s expression tightened.

He didn’t need to ask for details. We both knew this was the grim reality of our trade: Trust could be fickle, loyalty sold cheaply. After a moment, he nodded, as if accepting it. His brow creased with pain.

I reached for his hand again, squeezing gently.

“Don’t talk too much,” I said. “You need to rest.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the pale skin of his throat. “The statue . . .” he whispered so softly I could barely hear him.

“It’s here,” I said. “And the canister. Well, safe as it can be.”

The canister’s presence felt like a secret talisman. It was what we’d come for, after all, the key to something bigger than either of us. Maybe it would help further secure this maddening half peace, or maybe it would just spark new conflicts. That wasn’t our call. We were simply messengers, carriers of secrets.

Thomas nodded slowly. I saw his relief. Ifeltit.

He must have worried we’d lost the film, that his sacrifice had been in vain.

Then he licked his lips and looked at me again. The way he looked at me, his eyes so filled with love, made my heart twist. I realized in that moment how terrified I’d been that he wouldn’t wake up, that I’d have to leave him behind, or worse, watch him leave me.

My throat constricted.

I wanted to say something profound, something that would reassure him, but all I managed was his name, soft and trembling on my tongue.

“Thomas . . .”

He must have seen the fear in my eyes—and the relief.

Shifting his good hand, he touched my forearm. His voice was barely a whisper but held a hint of the old, stubborn strength I’d come to rely on. “It takes a lot more than a bad shot to kill me.”

Then his lips twisted into a lopsided smirk.

I laughed, a short, breathy sound that held as much relief as humor.

“Thank God,” I said, pressing my hand over his. “I was so worried.”

My voice cracked again at the end. I turned away, pretending to study the window, to make sure no one was out there. In truth, I needed a moment to gather myself. When I turned back, Thomas’s gaze hadn’t wavered. He knew me too well. He knew how I got when fear gnawed at my belly. He’d seen me flinch at nighttime artillery, back when we were still training for missions to come. Now, it was just the two of us, and he saw straight through my thin armor.

“Will,” he said softly. “It’s all right.I’mall right.”

It wasn’t, of course. He wasn’t. Nothing was all right. But I understood what he meant: He was alive, conscious, and for now, that would have to be enough.

I forced a shaky smile and nodded.

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