Page 6 of Monsters Like Us
But it’s too late. The room has noticed.
And so has Micah.
CHAPTER 4
Micah
The cafeteria humswith the usual noise—plastic trays slamming, voices droning, the metallic scrape of forks against dented plates. None of it touches me. Nothing ever does.
Until her.
Her eyes find mine across the room, hazel locking with black. The second it happens, the air changes. My chest tightens, my pulse kicking harder than it has in years.
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
A murmur ripples from a nearby table, penetrating through the noise. “Is she staring at him? At Micah the monster?”
The noise dies just a little. Heads turn. Even the weak ones know you don’t stare at me.
But she does.
And I drink it in, every second, every flicker of defiance on her face. It’s not fear. Not pity. Something else. Something only for me.
Then she looks away, severing our connection. Marcy steps closer, blocking her from me like a wall of steel.
“Eyes forward, Katana,” she barks, snapping her fingers toward the food line. Her hand closes around her arm, dragging her away.
I’m left with nothing but the echo of her gaze and the scent of cinnamon that wafted across the room.
My jaw ticks. Rage whispers at the edges, demanding I tear Marcy apart for daring to steal her from me. But I don’t move.
Now is not the time. Control the urge.
Instead, I let the mask of stone slip back over my face. I lower my eyes to the plate in front of me, tasting nothing, seeing nothing, but knowing one thing with absolute clarity: Katana belongs to me.
And anyone who comes between us will bleed for it.
CHAPTER 5
Katana
I letMarcy pull me toward the food line, adrenaline unspooling in my limbs. My legs wobble but hold. I can still feel the heat of his stare slicing into me like a brand.
“Eyes forward, Katana.” Marcy’s voice is low, but there’s ice under it. She steers me between people at the counter, her hand tight on my elbow. “You don’t want to cause trouble.”
People shift around us. One of the older patients hums a nervous tune. Another gives a small, pointed sniff when he sees me. Everyone seems to know the rule: don’t look at Micah. I broke that rule the second my eyes met his.
A woman ladles stew into a bowl and pushes it toward me. The steam warms my face. My stomach rumbles loud enough that Marcy pauses, her eyebrows hitching. I almost laugh, embarrassed and grateful at the same time. I didn’t always know when my next meal would come. There were months at Mom’s when I learned the exact sound of an empty cabinet. Then I sat behind bars, too afraid to eat, until I finally ended up here.
There are things institutional food can’t fix, but a warm tray is something, and I take it like salvation.
“Eat,” Marcy snaps as she piles potatoes and a thick hunk of bread next to the stew. Her hands move briskly and efficiently. “You’ll be on meds tonight. Take them. And don’t wander the halls. You hear me?”
“Yes.” My voice is small. I keep my eyes on the tray because if I look up now, I’ll see him through the sea of bodies, and then there’s no telling where the rest of my night will go.
She guides me to a table at the far end of the room—opposite from where Micah Morrow sits—and nudges me until I’m in the chair, my back facing him. The metal chair is cold, seeping through the fabric of my sweatpants. The place feels like a prison and a sanctuary all at once. At least here, food appears when it’s supposed to.
Marcy doesn’t sit. She leans against the wall, scanning the room, keeping the cafeteria running.
