Page 8 of Tater
“That’s what Presidents do,” Eagle replied. His tone was flat, edged. “They sit with the ones who bleed for them.”
“Yeah, but this is different,” Mouse said. “This is Ren.”
Something like pride twisted in her chest. Something like guilt too.
The dragon rumbled. “He stayed.”
“Of course he did,” she whispered.
The words must have come out louder than Ren thought, because there was movement in the corner of the room. A chair scraped. A boot shifted.
“Ren?”
That voice cut straight through her skull, past the pain, past the dragon.
Tater.
She turned her head toward the sound, slow enough that it felt like pushing through mud.
Tater was slumped in the chair beside my bed, elbows on his knees, eyes bloodshot and shadowed like he’d been awake for days. His cut was off and hanging on the back of the chair, leaving him in a black T-shirt that clung to every line of tension in his shoulders. There was a dark smudge along his jaw — dirt, blood, maybe Both.
He must’ve heard her because he straightened fast, hands going to the edge of the mattress like he expected me to disappear.
“Hey,” she rasped. “You look like shit.”
His mouth did this half-twitch, half-sigh thing. “Good. We match.”
Up close, he looked worse. There was a cut on his cheekbone, a bruise blooming along his neck. His knuckles were split. His hair was a mess, like he’d raked his hands through it a hundred times and didn’t remember doing it.
He reached out, hesitated, then laid his palm carefully against the side of her face, fingers sliding back into her hair.
“Welcome back,” he said, voice low.
“You sound disappointed.”
“Give me time,” he said. “I haven’t yelled yet.”
She snorted, then hissed. My ribs lit up in protest.
“Don’t make me laugh,” She muttered. “Hurts.”
“Don’t make jokes then.”
“Don’t be easy to make fun of.”
He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, then sat back a little, eyes traveling over the bandages like he was memorizing everyone.
“How bad?” she asked.
His jaw twitched. “Bad enough.”
“Specific, Prez. You know I hate vague.”
“Rib’s cracked. Bullet grazed your side — missed anything vital by an inch and a miracle. Leg took a nasty slice from the wire on the trail. Shoulder’s bruised to hell. You banged your head hard enough we had to check if you remembered your own name twice.”
“Do I?”
“Let’s find out,” he said. “Name?”
