Page 7 of Obliterated
Ican’tmove.
I can’t fuckingbreathe.
Terror is a fist around my throat, tight, unrelenting. My back’s pressed against the crate, my body trembling so hard it rattles the damn wood. His hand is on me. Iron fingers clamped around my neck, not choking me, but close enough that every frantic heartbeat thunders against his palm.
I can’t even swallow without him feeling it.
The blade in his other hand drips blood onto the boards between us. Wet. Slow. A rhythm of death I can’t look awayfrom. The stench of rot still clings to it, thick in the air, crawling into my lungs until I swear I can fucking taste it. I don’t even want to know what else that weapon has seen in this fucked up world.
And then there’shim.
Too close. Too fucking close. His scarred face inches from mine, his eyes black pits that see right through me. Heat radiates off him, suffocating, the kind that makes my head swim.
I want to scream. I want to beg. Instead, all I manage is a broken gasp when his lips curl and that low, dark, chuckle vibrates straight through me. His thumb strokes lazily over the side of my throat, like he’s testing the beat of my pulse. His grin sharpens, all teeth.
“Lost your voice?”
The words crawl under my skin, a taunt wrapped in amusement, and I know, deep down, my life just shifted. One wrong move, and it’s over. One wrong move… and maybe it already is.
I claw at the tatted wrist pinning me, nails scraping over scarred skin and filthy bandages, desperate for breath. He eases the pressure just enough for air to scrape back into my lungs.
“Why are you here alone, not with the others?” His voice is low, dangerous. A question dressed up like an order.
My head jerks side to the side before I can stop it. I don’t know what to answer. I don’t even know how. Because I can’t tell him the truth.
I can’t tell him I slipped onto the boat in the dead of night, hiding beneath torn nets and reeking tarps while the dock guards drank themselves stupid.
I can’t tell him I moved in silence every time boots thudded above me, praying no one would drag me out and throw me to the waves.
I can’t tell him I don’t belong here—that I’m no one, nothing.
Because if I do, he might just decide to prove them right. Wipe me from this place like I was never here. And no one would miss me.
My gaze flicks to the hallway door, to the smeared trail of blood where that poor bastard was ripped apart by the Walker. My brain scrambles, gears turning hard, desperate for something—anything—that might make sense.
“My dad,” I rasp, dragging air through my shredded throat. “My dad… he’s the one that got attacked. I managed to escape.”
He cocks his head, eyes narrowing, studying me like I’m some puzzle he already knows the answer to. The silence stretches, taut and sharp, before he gives the smallest, curt nod.
And in that moment, my stomach drops.
I lied.
I lied, I lied, I fucking lied.
I lied to a Watcher. TothisWatcher. This monster of a man with Walker’s blood still dripping from his blade, with eyes that look like they’ve stared into the bottomless abyss and decided to make it home.
He lingers for a beat, the weight of his gaze making my knees want to buckle, before a rough huff escapes him. Then, suddenly, he lets me go.
I stumble, clawing at my throat, coughing against the burn. My taped-up flip-flops skid in the slick puddle of gore, the crimson smear marking me just as much as it marks the floor.
“Let’s go,” he growls, sheathing his cleaver like this is nothing, like I’m nothing.Which I am.“They can sort you out at the docks.”
And just like that, he turns his back, walking away with a hitch in his step as if he hadn’t just had my life in his hands.
I grab my backpack—everything I own stuffed in one ragged bag—and scramble after him, tripping over my own feet, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my ears.
Shit. Shit.Shit. I made it.I made it this fucking far.
