Finished, I gather up my stuff. Stepping out into the hall, I cross to my room.
I’m at the door, turning the knob, beginning to push it open when I feel someone at my back. At first I think it’s Dusty, but then I’m being shoved inside, propelled into the room.
I drop my things and whirl around, not about to get trapped alone with a carrier bent on hurting me. Today’s been bad enough. I use my fists, whacking, slapping. Too tired to call up my recent training, my movements are wild.
My arms are seized, squeezed in an unrelenting grip. “Davy! Stop!”
I know the voice immediately.
Freezing, I glare up at Sean’s shadow in the gloom of the room. “What are you doing in here?”
His hands don’t drop from my arms as he shuts the door on us, sealing us in. He holds me from him. Looking me over in the near darkness. With one hand he flips on the light switch, his gaze scans all of me, setting my skin afire everywhere he looks . . . which is . . . everywhere.
“Are you all right?”
I lift up my shoulders and arms and throw off his hands. “Don’t touch me. Please. I just can’t have you touch me.”
Because it’s all I want. All I want and can’t ever have. Not anymore.
His eyes cloud over, so full of anguish. “I’m so sorry, Davy.”
I hold up a hand, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Stop. We’re not doing this.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Stop! Don’t say it.” I punch him then, furious. I slap his arms and chest with both hands. “Don’t say I didn’t have to do it.”
How can he think I had a choice? How dare he imply I could have let him die? The only thing I can cling to is the belief that I had to shoot that man.
“Davy.” He snatches hold of my hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.”
Panting, I tug my arms free and wave toward the door, shaking. “Just go. You shouldn’t even be here. This is the girls’ floor. They’re about to lock up.”
He doesn’t budge.
“I don’t need them thinking we’re closer than we are.” I say this even though I know that doesn’t matter anymore.
“They already know you’d kill to protect me. What difference does it make now?”
I swallow against the scratchy thickness in my throat. “I don’t want friends around they can use against me.”
“Well, too bad. I’m here.” He steps closer. “You don’t want to go through this alone.”
Want. I close my eyes in an agonized blink, thinking about what I want. I want this day undone. I want that man not dead. “What I want hasn’t mattered in a long time. This is what needs to happen.” It’s the only way I can live with myself.
“Look. I never imagined them making you do something like that. . . . Using me . . .” His voice fades away and he looks down at his hands. I study his profile, the lines of his face stark and harshly beautiful in the unforgiving light.
“They’ll do it again,” I whisper, lifting my face, staring blindly at the ceiling tiles. See only brown eyes. Hear only the crack of the gun, the drop of the carrier’s body on the dirt. That’s it, all there is, the only sound in my head. No more music. Just this. “God, I can’t do that again. There won’t be anything left of me—” I stop with a choke, wondering if there’s anything left of me now.
They were right all along. I’m a killer. The only hope I have now is to finish the program and get out of here as soon as possible. Get the imprint removed from my neck. Gain some semblance of freedom, of normalcy, for myself.
“You have to go. Don’t come here again.” I pause, take a breath, and swallow.
He looks up at me and just stares. “I can’t pretend you don’t exist for me.”
I stop just short of jabbing him in the chest. Something about him, so large, so close, the aroma of night and wind still upon him, makes me keep my hand to myself. I make a small sound, part laugh, part moan. “Sure you can.” I step past him to open the door for him to leave, but I don’t get that far.
He grabs my arm and whirls me around, smacking me right against him. I strain to get away, arching my body. His eyes hold me again. It’s always his eyes. The gray-blue so seductive, like smoke weaving its spell on me.
One of his hands cups the back of my head, fingers weaving into the wet strands. Everything inside me stills, locks tight as his palm curves around the back of my skull. I can only look into those eyes. Watch him watching me. Stare helplessly when his gaze drops to my mouth.
His head moves down swiftly, stopping just a half inch from my lips. Our breaths merge, mingle. His hand flexes in my hair, as if testing the wet texture.
Then he closes the space between us. Kisses me finally. Sensation explodes inside me when his lips touch mine. It’s not tentative or shy like most first kisses. The ones I’ve had anyway.
It’s urgent and full of need. Hungry and desperate. The perfect force and pressure. I slide my hands around his neck, twine my fingers up through his hair.
I stretch onto my tiptoes. His hand on my arm moves to wrap around my waist, lifting me, plastering me against him.
“You smell so good,” he mutters against my mouth. Feelings and sensations rush me, killing the misery, temporarily ridding it from my system. Later is soon enough to remember what I am, what I’ve become.
I make a small mewling sound, kissing him harder as he carries me to the foot of the bed. I’m glad for the small room. Glad to reach the bed so quickly.
His body settles over mine. I fist my hands into his shirt, clutching the fabric, hating it, wanting to tear it, shred it from his body as his mouth devours mine.
His hands move like the wind, soundless and sudden. Warm and caressing. His fingers slide over my skin, stroking, brushing everywhere. My hair. My face. My neck. Under my shirt. Against my stomach.
Wild pants break from my lips, spill into his mouth as his kiss consumes me. I let go of his shirt and slide my hands under the fabric, letting my palms test the expanse of his back and chest, touch skin.
With a groan, he pulls back, his hands going to the hem of his shirt. In one smooth move, it’s up and over his head.
Then he’s back. His mouth on mine. His bare chest pressing hotly over me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, reveling in the moment—in him. Desire. Need. Connection to another soul again. In this, in him, everything else fades. The horror of earlier, a distant, faraway dream. Another life. Another girl. Another killer . . . not me.
Gradually, other sounds penetrate. The ding of the elevator, footsteps, doors opening, closing.
He says my name against my mouth, that deep voice vibrating against the sensitive flesh of my lips. “Davy? I have to go.”
I drag my mouth away from his, my body limp, boneless on the bed. Everything inside me quivers with emotion . . . with longing and desire for another. And not just anyone. Sean. A carrier who can be the opposite of all predictions. Good. Principled. Heroic.
His eyes glitter, making the darker outside ring more prominent. “I have to go.” I drink in the sight of him as he pulls his shirt back on over his head.
“Yes.” I nod and suck in another breath, remembering myself. A proven killer. I have to beat this place. Survive it and get out. “You can’t come here again. No more—”
He cuts me off. “Not that again.” His gaze drills into me.
I hold silent, my heart palpitating to the point of pain inside my chest.
His thumb strokes down the side of my face, tracing the small cut there. “Let’s leave this place.”
“What?” My voice escapes in a croak.
“You heard me. Let’s run.”
The wild suggestion tempts me. My hand drifts to my neck, brushing the imprint there that forever brands me as the killer that I am. I’ll have no way of getting rid of it if I run.
Sean continues, “I don’t want to become what they’re training us to be. I don’t want what happened today to happen again, and it will. It doesn’t matter if we ignore each other. They used me once to manipulate you. They’ll do it again. Maybe next time, they’ll use you to get me to do something.” His eyes look pained. “And I’ll do it. God knows I will.”
Of course, he would. He volunteered to kill for me today—so I wouldn’t have to do it. Not that Harris let him.
I moisten my lips. “Even if we could get away, where would we go? How would we not get caught?” My gaze skitters to the door, knowing we only have minutes before my door gets locked.
He angles his head. His hair strokes his shoulders with the motion. I doubt he’s cut it even once in the months since we first met.
“Can you trust me? Gil has been looking into it during independent study, and I’ve heard things, too . . . before we came here. There’s an underground group out there offering shelter for carriers, helping us get to safety. There are places we could go.”
We. He wants me to go with him. Run away into the dangerous unknown. My stomach does a flip. “Gil’s going, too?”
“And you . . . I hope.” His gaze searches mine.
“I don’t know, Sean. If we’re caught escaping . . .”
We know what would happen. Today taught us that.
“How can we risk it?” I finish.
“How can we stay here?”
His head dips and he’s kissing me again, persuading me with lips that make me melt. It’s unfair of him, but I clutch him close again.
A door slams nearby and I jerk in his arms.
Sean lifts his head. We wait, listening to the sound of receding steps.
I sag with relief. “Go. Now.”
He climbs off the bed. “Think about it. We’re working on a plan. Gil is waiting to hear back from a contact. It’s gonna happen soon. This week.”
This week? Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “You didn’t just decide to do this today. How long have you been planning this?”
His expression hardens. “Let’s just say after today I decided to put a rush on things.” And I can see it in his eyes now. His pain. I’d only thought of my misery, but now I realize today destroyed a piece of him, too. I might have pulled the trigger, but he’s the reason I did it.
“I won’t be anyone’s pawn again,” he vows.
But he will. Or I will. Maybe next time the gun will be on me. As long as we’re together, we can be twisted and manipulated. I could hurt him, Gil . . . to say nothing of myself. Some wounds are deeper than death. If nothing else, I’ve learned that.
He watches me, waiting.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise, trying to convince myself that out there we have a chance. That just maybe we could make it.
Correspondence from director of Camp 4 to Dr. Wainwright:
The conditions in the camp have reached crisis-level proportions. Disease, infighting, attacks on the guards. Escapes are more frequent, and we haven’t the manpower to give pursuit. We request immediate relief . . . more guards, more supplies, more temporary buildings. Perhaps the dismantling of the camp altogether is necessary. Something needs to be done or I fear the carriers shall soon overrun us. . . .
Reply from Dr. Wainwright:
We haven’t the supplies or manpower to spare at this time. Your foremost priority is to maintain control of the camp. I cannot stress how crucial this is. Exterminate any agitators that threaten your command and do not waste food or medicine on the gravely sick.
TWENTY-NINE
I WORK EXTRA HARD THE NEXT DAY. EVEN STILL sore from my sparring match with Tully, I push through the discomfort, ignoring the twinges in my ribs.
I avoid Sean and Gil, needing time to think, to process. I feel them looking at me several times throughout the day. I’m sure Sean recapped Gil on our conversation in my room—leaving out the make-out session. I know I left Sean with the impression that I would consider running away with him, but in the light of day I’m not sure of anything. I can hardly think about that. Flashes of that carrier falling to the ground play over and over in my mind. The weight of the gun in my hand. The recoil as I pull the trigger. A living nightmare.
I’m at the door, turning the knob, beginning to push it open when I feel someone at my back. At first I think it’s Dusty, but then I’m being shoved inside, propelled into the room.
I drop my things and whirl around, not about to get trapped alone with a carrier bent on hurting me. Today’s been bad enough. I use my fists, whacking, slapping. Too tired to call up my recent training, my movements are wild.
My arms are seized, squeezed in an unrelenting grip. “Davy! Stop!”
I know the voice immediately.
Freezing, I glare up at Sean’s shadow in the gloom of the room. “What are you doing in here?”
His hands don’t drop from my arms as he shuts the door on us, sealing us in. He holds me from him. Looking me over in the near darkness. With one hand he flips on the light switch, his gaze scans all of me, setting my skin afire everywhere he looks . . . which is . . . everywhere.
“Are you all right?”
I lift up my shoulders and arms and throw off his hands. “Don’t touch me. Please. I just can’t have you touch me.”
Because it’s all I want. All I want and can’t ever have. Not anymore.
His eyes cloud over, so full of anguish. “I’m so sorry, Davy.”
I hold up a hand, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Stop. We’re not doing this.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Stop! Don’t say it.” I punch him then, furious. I slap his arms and chest with both hands. “Don’t say I didn’t have to do it.”
How can he think I had a choice? How dare he imply I could have let him die? The only thing I can cling to is the belief that I had to shoot that man.
“Davy.” He snatches hold of my hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course.”
Panting, I tug my arms free and wave toward the door, shaking. “Just go. You shouldn’t even be here. This is the girls’ floor. They’re about to lock up.”
He doesn’t budge.
“I don’t need them thinking we’re closer than we are.” I say this even though I know that doesn’t matter anymore.
“They already know you’d kill to protect me. What difference does it make now?”
I swallow against the scratchy thickness in my throat. “I don’t want friends around they can use against me.”
“Well, too bad. I’m here.” He steps closer. “You don’t want to go through this alone.”
Want. I close my eyes in an agonized blink, thinking about what I want. I want this day undone. I want that man not dead. “What I want hasn’t mattered in a long time. This is what needs to happen.” It’s the only way I can live with myself.
“Look. I never imagined them making you do something like that. . . . Using me . . .” His voice fades away and he looks down at his hands. I study his profile, the lines of his face stark and harshly beautiful in the unforgiving light.
“They’ll do it again,” I whisper, lifting my face, staring blindly at the ceiling tiles. See only brown eyes. Hear only the crack of the gun, the drop of the carrier’s body on the dirt. That’s it, all there is, the only sound in my head. No more music. Just this. “God, I can’t do that again. There won’t be anything left of me—” I stop with a choke, wondering if there’s anything left of me now.
They were right all along. I’m a killer. The only hope I have now is to finish the program and get out of here as soon as possible. Get the imprint removed from my neck. Gain some semblance of freedom, of normalcy, for myself.
“You have to go. Don’t come here again.” I pause, take a breath, and swallow.
He looks up at me and just stares. “I can’t pretend you don’t exist for me.”
I stop just short of jabbing him in the chest. Something about him, so large, so close, the aroma of night and wind still upon him, makes me keep my hand to myself. I make a small sound, part laugh, part moan. “Sure you can.” I step past him to open the door for him to leave, but I don’t get that far.
He grabs my arm and whirls me around, smacking me right against him. I strain to get away, arching my body. His eyes hold me again. It’s always his eyes. The gray-blue so seductive, like smoke weaving its spell on me.
One of his hands cups the back of my head, fingers weaving into the wet strands. Everything inside me stills, locks tight as his palm curves around the back of my skull. I can only look into those eyes. Watch him watching me. Stare helplessly when his gaze drops to my mouth.
His head moves down swiftly, stopping just a half inch from my lips. Our breaths merge, mingle. His hand flexes in my hair, as if testing the wet texture.
Then he closes the space between us. Kisses me finally. Sensation explodes inside me when his lips touch mine. It’s not tentative or shy like most first kisses. The ones I’ve had anyway.
It’s urgent and full of need. Hungry and desperate. The perfect force and pressure. I slide my hands around his neck, twine my fingers up through his hair.
I stretch onto my tiptoes. His hand on my arm moves to wrap around my waist, lifting me, plastering me against him.
“You smell so good,” he mutters against my mouth. Feelings and sensations rush me, killing the misery, temporarily ridding it from my system. Later is soon enough to remember what I am, what I’ve become.
I make a small mewling sound, kissing him harder as he carries me to the foot of the bed. I’m glad for the small room. Glad to reach the bed so quickly.
His body settles over mine. I fist my hands into his shirt, clutching the fabric, hating it, wanting to tear it, shred it from his body as his mouth devours mine.
His hands move like the wind, soundless and sudden. Warm and caressing. His fingers slide over my skin, stroking, brushing everywhere. My hair. My face. My neck. Under my shirt. Against my stomach.
Wild pants break from my lips, spill into his mouth as his kiss consumes me. I let go of his shirt and slide my hands under the fabric, letting my palms test the expanse of his back and chest, touch skin.
With a groan, he pulls back, his hands going to the hem of his shirt. In one smooth move, it’s up and over his head.
Then he’s back. His mouth on mine. His bare chest pressing hotly over me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, reveling in the moment—in him. Desire. Need. Connection to another soul again. In this, in him, everything else fades. The horror of earlier, a distant, faraway dream. Another life. Another girl. Another killer . . . not me.
Gradually, other sounds penetrate. The ding of the elevator, footsteps, doors opening, closing.
He says my name against my mouth, that deep voice vibrating against the sensitive flesh of my lips. “Davy? I have to go.”
I drag my mouth away from his, my body limp, boneless on the bed. Everything inside me quivers with emotion . . . with longing and desire for another. And not just anyone. Sean. A carrier who can be the opposite of all predictions. Good. Principled. Heroic.
His eyes glitter, making the darker outside ring more prominent. “I have to go.” I drink in the sight of him as he pulls his shirt back on over his head.
“Yes.” I nod and suck in another breath, remembering myself. A proven killer. I have to beat this place. Survive it and get out. “You can’t come here again. No more—”
He cuts me off. “Not that again.” His gaze drills into me.
I hold silent, my heart palpitating to the point of pain inside my chest.
His thumb strokes down the side of my face, tracing the small cut there. “Let’s leave this place.”
“What?” My voice escapes in a croak.
“You heard me. Let’s run.”
The wild suggestion tempts me. My hand drifts to my neck, brushing the imprint there that forever brands me as the killer that I am. I’ll have no way of getting rid of it if I run.
Sean continues, “I don’t want to become what they’re training us to be. I don’t want what happened today to happen again, and it will. It doesn’t matter if we ignore each other. They used me once to manipulate you. They’ll do it again. Maybe next time, they’ll use you to get me to do something.” His eyes look pained. “And I’ll do it. God knows I will.”
Of course, he would. He volunteered to kill for me today—so I wouldn’t have to do it. Not that Harris let him.
I moisten my lips. “Even if we could get away, where would we go? How would we not get caught?” My gaze skitters to the door, knowing we only have minutes before my door gets locked.
He angles his head. His hair strokes his shoulders with the motion. I doubt he’s cut it even once in the months since we first met.
“Can you trust me? Gil has been looking into it during independent study, and I’ve heard things, too . . . before we came here. There’s an underground group out there offering shelter for carriers, helping us get to safety. There are places we could go.”
We. He wants me to go with him. Run away into the dangerous unknown. My stomach does a flip. “Gil’s going, too?”
“And you . . . I hope.” His gaze searches mine.
“I don’t know, Sean. If we’re caught escaping . . .”
We know what would happen. Today taught us that.
“How can we risk it?” I finish.
“How can we stay here?”
His head dips and he’s kissing me again, persuading me with lips that make me melt. It’s unfair of him, but I clutch him close again.
A door slams nearby and I jerk in his arms.
Sean lifts his head. We wait, listening to the sound of receding steps.
I sag with relief. “Go. Now.”
He climbs off the bed. “Think about it. We’re working on a plan. Gil is waiting to hear back from a contact. It’s gonna happen soon. This week.”
This week? Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “You didn’t just decide to do this today. How long have you been planning this?”
His expression hardens. “Let’s just say after today I decided to put a rush on things.” And I can see it in his eyes now. His pain. I’d only thought of my misery, but now I realize today destroyed a piece of him, too. I might have pulled the trigger, but he’s the reason I did it.
“I won’t be anyone’s pawn again,” he vows.
But he will. Or I will. Maybe next time the gun will be on me. As long as we’re together, we can be twisted and manipulated. I could hurt him, Gil . . . to say nothing of myself. Some wounds are deeper than death. If nothing else, I’ve learned that.
He watches me, waiting.
“I’ll think about it,” I promise, trying to convince myself that out there we have a chance. That just maybe we could make it.
Correspondence from director of Camp 4 to Dr. Wainwright:
The conditions in the camp have reached crisis-level proportions. Disease, infighting, attacks on the guards. Escapes are more frequent, and we haven’t the manpower to give pursuit. We request immediate relief . . . more guards, more supplies, more temporary buildings. Perhaps the dismantling of the camp altogether is necessary. Something needs to be done or I fear the carriers shall soon overrun us. . . .
Reply from Dr. Wainwright:
We haven’t the supplies or manpower to spare at this time. Your foremost priority is to maintain control of the camp. I cannot stress how crucial this is. Exterminate any agitators that threaten your command and do not waste food or medicine on the gravely sick.
TWENTY-NINE
I WORK EXTRA HARD THE NEXT DAY. EVEN STILL sore from my sparring match with Tully, I push through the discomfort, ignoring the twinges in my ribs.
I avoid Sean and Gil, needing time to think, to process. I feel them looking at me several times throughout the day. I’m sure Sean recapped Gil on our conversation in my room—leaving out the make-out session. I know I left Sean with the impression that I would consider running away with him, but in the light of day I’m not sure of anything. I can hardly think about that. Flashes of that carrier falling to the ground play over and over in my mind. The weight of the gun in my hand. The recoil as I pull the trigger. A living nightmare.
