Page 37 of Entangled

“They’re taking us back, Eden.” I look down at her and her face is stone serious. “We need a plan. Maybe I should?—”

We both fall silent as a Sinner walks past, tugging on his shirt. When he’s safely past us, I throw some thyme in the pot.

“I have a plan,” I tell her in an undertone.

Madison snorts, then sobers again when she sees I’m serious. “What...?”

Casually, I reach into my herb bag and pull out the generous handful of water hemlock I carefully prepared last night. Logan looks over at me. My pulse beating a war drum in my ears, I nod to him... and throw the hemlock into the pot. He glances away, unconcerned.

“Hey!” Sam shouts, and I jump, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking into the trees. “No! Were you born this stupid? Fuck.”

He storms out of the camp, fixated on whoever has set him off again this morning.

But it’s not me.

I’m not caught.

My skin feels shivery and tight. I watch Sam leave with a spike of frustration. I need him here. He should be getting the first bowl.

A light sweat has gathered along my hairline, and my stomach dances nervously.

But I don’t feel guilty. I don’t even feel angry, exactly.

This white-hot loathing isn’t afeeling.

It’s a state of being.

These men killed mine—and so they have to die. It’s the new law of my universe.

My face feels numb, and so do my fingers, but I’m flushed with a curious, cold heat. My hate burns like a winter storm, and I walk in its eye, quivering in dread—in anticipation—of the carnage I’m about to wreak.

But Idon’twant to get caught.

I clear my throat as dawn cracks between the trees. “Breakfast is ready,” I call.

My voice is steady as a stream.

As the men start wandering over, I lower my voice to a hush. “The soup is poisoned. Make sure everyone gets a bowl. And be ready tomove.”

My eyes flick to hers, which turn wide and round. “What?—?”

“Fuck,yes. I thought Sam was going to make us leave without breakfast,” one of the Sinners sighs to his friend, cutting Madison off, and I kick her as subtly as I can.

Her mouth snaps shut, though her eyes still bore into me.

“Ithought Matty boy was going to shoot Sam and servehimfor breakfast,” his friend snorts back.

Without saying a word, I scoop a heavy ladleful of soup into their bowls, and they head back to their bags, shoving each other and laughing. I fill bowl after bowl, and Madison finally shakes herself out of her shock. She gets to her feet and, still too wide-eyed, delivers deathly meals to the men packing up the larger tents. Her steps are slow and staggering, her ankle still not able to hold her weight.

That’s going to be a problem.

The line peters out until Akira stands before me with her bowl. Last, as always, but ready to take her food.

And my stomach drops. The sweet storm of hate stutters inside me, and it’s like debris starts slamming into my organs.

No.

Not Akira.

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