Page 6 of Beast in the Badlands
Her eyes remain closed, lashes dark against her freckled skin. Something about her fragility tugs at me—this fierce desire to protect her ignites like kindling catching flame. What the fuck?
“Damn it,” I mutter bitterly.
The weight of silence presses down as I study her features—the gentle curve of her lips and the way her hair spills over one shoulder like strands of gold caught in a net of despair.
Something shifts inside me—a flicker of warmth against all that coldness etched into my soul from years of violence and loss.
She’s mine.
The thought invades my mind with an intensity that both frightens and exhilarates me. I shouldn’t feel this way about a human—about anyone at all—but here we are.
My breath hitches as the realization sinks deeper: no matter how hard I try to dismiss it, she’s more than just an unfamiliar face in this broken world; she’s tethered to me somehow, and already I can’t bear the thought of losing her.
I swallow hard, fighting against the ache tightening in my chest as darkness gathers at the edges of my vision again.
An old drone buzzes into view, its metal frame battered and flickering. It beeps frantically, alarms shrieking like a banshee in distress.
I swat it aside, sending it crashing into the wall. But I’m too late; the human jolts awake, instincts kicking in. Her eyes dart around before locking onto me.
She lunges for her weapon, steadying it on me with practiced precision. A spark of amusement flickers within me despite the pain.
“Fry!” she exclaims, panic slicing through her voice as she takes in the shattered drone on the floor.
“It was attacking me,” I say, and her grip falters, surprise flashing across her face.
“It's an assistant! It's not programmed to attack,” she snaps, her voice sharp as steel.
I shrug, letting indifference drape over me like a cloak. The pain in my legs flares as I shift slightly, but I don’t let it show.
“Doesn’t matter to me.” My gaze holds hers; she’s fierce—determined. It’s intriguing how quickly she assesses danger.
She reaims her weapon at me, eyes narrowed. “Then maybe you should keep your hands to yourself next time.”
I can’t help but smirk at that; she has fire.
“I’m Emry,” she finally says, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it.
Emry. The name rings in my gut like a bell tolling in a forgotten temple. It holds weight, reverberating through the hollows of me that have long been filled only with pain and violence. Possessiveness surges—a primal instinct clawing its way to the surface like a beast needing to claim its territory.
“Renn,” I reply, forcing my body to remain still under the threat of her gun. “Where am I?”
She lowers the weapon slightly but keeps it trained on me. “An abandoned med outpost. You crashed a few miles from here.”
“Crashed?” I grimace as memory floods back—chaos, explosions, pain—and suddenly I remember everything about that ill-fated mission.
“You went down hard.” Her tone shifts from cautious to matter-of-fact as if we’re discussing the weather rather than my life hanging by a thread.
My legs burn where shrapnel is buried deep beneath torn muscle and mangled skin. Panic threatens to bubble up again, but I force it down—can’t show weakness here.
“Can I walk?” The words tumble out before I can catch them.
She hesitates for just a heartbeat too long. “You might be able to eventually,” she says slowly, “but right now? You’re in bad shape.”
“Bad shape how?”
Her eyes darken as she shifts closer, examining the bandages wrapped around my thighs like they’re an ancient relic rather than mere fabric soaked in blood and sweat.
“They’re infected,” she states bluntly, as if stating an undeniable truth carved into stone. “I don’t know if you’ll ever walk properly again.”
