Page 39 of Obliterated
“You’re bleeding,” I say after a beat of silence, because I can’t sayyou’re alivewithout falling apart.
The corner of his mouth pulls up, almost bored. “It’s really not that bad.”
Maybe he thinks the act still works, that lazy shrug, that careless tone. Like I’ll buy it. Like I don’t notice the shadows carved deep under his eyes, or how his shoulders sag as soon as he thinks no one’s watching.
He thinks I don’t see him. But I fucking do.
Despite everything, I should fear him, like every person on this island who has some sense does. Shit, the fight I just witnessed should’ve been a big ass warning sign.
A warning to stay far away from him.
He instills more fear and horror in these people than the damn zombies. He’s the nightmare parents tell their children about, the monster lurking beneath every shattered dream on this forsaken island.
But I don’t fear him.
Oh, how I fucking don’t.
In the nothingness, the wasteland, in the emptiness that makes meme, there’s this tiny flicker. A spark ofsomething. A shimmer in the dark that glows stubbornly brighter, refusing to snuff out, refusing to let me end it. It scares me more than he ever could, this fragile little thing that feels dangerously like desire, or maybe even hope for a better life.
That spark has a name.
That spark is called Max.
He looks at me then, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. Like he sees all my cracks, all my jagged edges, all the shit I try to bury… and decides to stay, anyway.
And I want him to see it. All of me. Can’t push it down even if I wanted to.
“I was scared for you today.” The words come out in a broken whisper.
He huffs, looks forward again, to the wall only a shadow against the star-strewn night. “Don’t be. Nine is easy to handle. I think when I get to fifteen or so, I should get worried.”
“Do I need to stitch it?” I ask, my voice still catching.
A sigh. “I’m fine.”
“But?”
“But we’re going to start training tomorrow.”
I frown, not sure where this is coming from or what kind of training he even means.
“I just spent six days wondering, stewing,obsessingif those braindead idiots from the bar went after you while I was gone. I’d have fared better if I knew you could properly defend yourself.”
My fucking heart.
I don’t tell him they were back. Thathewas back. Sitting in that booth at the far end of the room, eyes locked on me,taunting me, stroking that fucking goatee. If it weren’t for Sami and Tass glued to my side, I know he would’ve done more than stare. The most fucked-up thing? I don’t even know his name, but I don’t need to for him to haunt my nightmares.
“Okay,” I finally say, knowing better than to argue. “You’re off for two days. Roe’s orders. Tomorrow we can start training.”
He nods once, shoulders dipping the smallest bit, like that settles it. Like the most important thing is out of the way. Then he reaches for his trusty tin, flicks it open, and pulls out another cigarette.
He lights it with one hand, like it’s nothing. Like the world isn’t burning, and the air doesn’t already stink of blood and old metal. The flare of the match catches on the edge of his jaw, and for a second, he looks almost human.
Almost.
The smoke curls around him as he exhales, slow and controlled. It doesn’t smell like his usual cigarettes. Like always, there’s something earthy beneath it. Sharp and sweet. I know that scent.
Ashleaf. Always Ashleaf.
