Page 73 of Redemption
Every time I broach the topic, however, she reaffirms that she has one, that it’s good enough, and that we’ve wasted enough time arguing schematics. Then, when I inevitably scoff at her impatience and lack of preparedness, she fights back like the little honey badger she is, stating she’s already geared up and ready to go, fully armed with a gun, her florally decorated baseball bat, and a fuck ton of pent-up rage. According to her, it’s enough, but it’s not even close.
There’s another problem she hasn’t taken into account yet. One she’s probably not even fully aware of.
She’s been monitored by the faction. Watched meticulously for days prior to her intended extraction. Which means they know exactly what she looks like. Probably right down to the heart-shaped freckle on her right ass cheek. And, although that thought turns the blood in my veins to pure venom, it’s realistic. It’s why we can’t barge in there like we’re storming a fucking castle, as she probably intends to.
It's why, whether I want to do this or not, I have to be the one to make it happen. With my history within the Phoenix Rising community, I’m able to hide in plain sight. Be the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Out of the two of us, I’m the one who can get in, find them, and get out without alerting anyone to anything suspicious.
And it’s not simply for the fact that I’m better suited for a recon mission. After last night, Ihaveto do this.
My heart had nearly ripped from my chest when I heard it: the siren’s call that drew me right to her doorway. At first,it was her restlessness. The never-ending sound of her turning over and over again, unable to get settled even though I knew she was exhausted. But then came the tears. The soft sobs and whimpers that floated in the silence, drifting to me as I waited just outside. It was all I could do to not go in there and pull her into my arms. To offer comfort to ease her sorrows. But I’m not sure she would have wanted that.
Not with how much she was hurting.
Not with how much she was missingthem.
Because those tears weren’t for running into the small grouping of deadheads. They weren’t for my sudden presence in her life again. They weren’t due to the pain associated with her monthly cycle. Those were tears of loss. The loss of her group, those guys, herfamily.
I did the only thing I could think of to help ease the pain of heartbreak. Something I’ve only ever done in her presence.
I sang for her.
Offered her notes filled with love and compassion to help her drift off to sleep. And, eventually, it worked. Her sputtering gasps of sorrow were replaced by the deep, steady breaths of much-needed sleep.
Once she finally settled in the bed, the truth became all too clear.
I love her with all my heart, all my soul, my entire existence... but she needs to be reunited with her family. Regardless of what that may look like for me, I need to give her everything I have so she can have everything she needs. Even if that means giving her up to—*cringe*—three... fucking... guys.
Look, I get it’s the end of the world, but come on! An intimate relationship with three guys?Three guys?!Really?!How she’s even able to walk on her own two feet is a modern marvel. Three fucking guys. What were those testosterone-fueled asshats thinking? That all four of them found one another and, since no further X-chromosomal options were available, they’d share the only female they had access to? Like a fucking toy to a group of toddlers?
That’s another thing. Did these guys know each other prior to all of this? Were they friends? Family? Something? Or did they just find each other and say, “Fuck it, here we are?”God, I don’t even want to think about it. Or... holy shit... the physical schematics of such a relationship.
It’s no wonder she’s exhausted. The poor woman’s not getting any rest!
Well, that’s not happening anymore. Not while she’s under my watch and I still draw breath. I’ll have to have a stern talking-to with the guys once we find them and get them out. She might be head over heels for them, but they should know she has another person waiting in her corner in the event they decide to fuck shit up and she needs backup. I have no idea how she’ll get ahold of me after all this, but where there’s a will, there’s a way.
I might not be boyfriend or fiancé material anymore, at least not in her eyes, but I can definitely be the guy lurking in the shadows just waiting for the go-ahead. Hell, I followed their group from a distance for two days wearing my ghillie suit, and they had no idea. Well... Alessandra might have spotted me once when I almost slipped out of the tree I was hiding in, but those three asshats had no fucking idea. And it’ll be the same way if they fuck up and piss her off.
Silent vigilante justice.
I’ll gladly be her assassin hiding in the shadows with or without her approval.
Hell, I already am.
Last night, I couldn’t help but wander towards the bedroom. Not to enter, but just to be within a heartbeat of her presence. I thought she was dead, taken by the virus well over a year ago when this all started. For a time in the beginning, I hoped the epidemic would fizzle out and end before it reached as far north as she was. But with everyone around me dropping like flies, my hope slowly withered away. The thought that she could overcome everything, every obstacle, every statistic that coincided with the virus, when so many others fell so easily? It didn’t seem possible. But, then again.
It’s Alessandra.
My heart and soul, whether she agrees with me or not.
I should’ve known better than to think she wouldn’t have survived. She’s too stubborn not to. She’s probably stared down a deadhead and flipped it off before killing it. The picture in my mind of her doing just that brings a small smile to my lips. Even watching her yesterday, when she took out a handful of them as if it was second nature. I was awestruck at her demonstration of courage and resiliency. Of her strength and perseverance.
It was then I realized someone took the time to teach her, to mold her into who she is today. Someone who was also trained well. Someone who must have worked with her over and over again on how to handle not only a weapon but also the stress associated with fighting and the resulting trauma. Although, it’s not as if she doesn’t showsomesigns of trauma. Everyone who’s survived the virus has some sort of cross to bear as a result. Hers just so happens to be another personality.
I don’t think it’s D.I.D.—dissociative identity disorder. People with that diagnosis switch between personalities, having another alter come andtake the helm,so to speak, duringdifferent scenarios. Alessandra speaks to hers as if it’s a living entity standing right next to her. Schizophrenia, maybe? From what I’ve heard, a person with schizophrenia can have hallucinations—they can hear voices, see things that aren’t there, believe things that aren’t real. She’s definitely speaking to someone that isn’t there, and is suffering regularly from hallucinations. But, then again, she’s notsuffering, is she? She consults this... other personality... as if it’s an extension of herself.
A mentor.
A friend.
