Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The cave has grown dark.Too dark. The cold breath of night settles over my skin, and I curl myself into the blankets, waiting for Rhys to return. A dull ache in my gut is the first brush of pain, letting me know it’s there. Waiting. I clamp my eyes and shake my thoughts of the possibility that he might not come back.

That I could possibly go through the horrific pain of losing him twice.

I wouldn’t. And perhaps staying here was a mistake.

I’ve lost too many people I love, in the most brutal ways, and losing Rhys, my beloved Six, would ruin me for good this time.

Isn’t that the way of love, though? It’s like a flame, a magnificent gift of nature that draws you into its warmth. The closer a person gets, the more they sacrifice themselves, until they’re burning in that unforgiving fire, wishing to become numb, as they turn to nothing more than ash on the wind.

That’s my take on love.

Yet, still my masochistic heart yearns for that heat.

My thoughts twist like a hurricane inside my head, and in the thick of it, the notes from Papa’s journal begin to surface, flashing a number behind my closed lids.

Six’s prison number.

The antibody.

My eyes flip open to a thought. Not a thought, an idea. An idea that might be more feasible than trying to sneak into Szolen and wage war on a giant.

A clamor echoes from beyond my wall. Shouts and screams. I sit up in the bed, eyes on the door ahead of me. My head tells me to run and see what’s happening.

My heart tells me I can’t face the pain.

My head wins, and I slip my feet over the edge of the bed, dash across the room, and throw back the door. The walls close in on me from both sides, as I scurry down the hallway and into the large cavern. Bodies rush around a mass of black in the center of the room, forming a tight circle I can’t see past. I focus on the black leather vests gathered in a tight cluster and hold my breath.

The steady hammer in my chest counts off every step, while I push through the small crowd and catch sight of legs, blood, arms, blood, a torso, blood. The sickness churns in my stomach, until I reach the eye of the storm and stare down at Crank, lying in a thick pool of blood. His own. Pouring out of wounds in his chest and leg. The others stand around him, as if frozen, not knowing what to do. A pale hue clings to his face, and I drop to my knees on instinct, slapping my palms against his wounds. His body is cold, ice cold, and I’m certain death is one breath away.

“I need rags!” My mouth spills words that my head hasn’t even begun to keep up with. “Get a canteen and a blanket!”

People move at my command, and in seconds, I’m presented with a small pile of rags and a canteen. Rigs drapes the blanket over Crank’s trembling body.

In the pause between us, I look up to him standing over me. “Rhys?”

Above the skull mask bunched at his neck, his brows furrow, sending a sharp stab to my gut. “I don’t know. He stayed back with Tripp.”

“What happened?” Panic strangles my voice.

“There were too many this time. They had … alphas with them.” His face pinches, and he shakes his head. “One of the guards shot Crank.”

“Rhys was alive … when you saw him last. He was alive, right?”

“He was alive.”

Okay, okay, okay.

The tightness winds in my gut, and with trembling hands, I nod, pressing the rags into Crank’s leg wound. On a breath, I dare to pour the water over the wound, to get a look at it, but more blood gathers as fast as it’s washed away.

I already know he’s going to die. He’s lost too much blood, and judging by the continuous flow seeping into the rags, something major was hit. Trying to remove the bullet would probably uncork a vein, and he’d die for the effort.

Papa once had a man brought to our doorstep, who’d been shot in the leg. I didn’t think someone could die from being shot there, but Papa said he’d been hit in the femoral artery and couldn’t be saved. He didn’t even try, which bothered me.

Red kneels beside me, her lips trembling with the sob she holds back.

“Pressure to his wounds,” I say, tossing her one of the rags. It won’t do any good, but at least we’ll have tried.

She holds the rag to a hole at his chest, and her eyes meet mine. “Have you seen them yet?”

I shake my head, rapidly blinking away the watery shield. “They were together. They stayed back.”

“Oh, Crank.” She finally breaks down and slides her hand into the biker’s thick palm. “Hang in there.”

It takes another three minutes before the trembling fades, his mouth gapes, and his eyes turn vacant.

Lifeless.

Hands still pressing against his wounds, I lower my head, and the cavern goes still. Only the crackling bonfire can be heard over the sniffles behind me.

“He’s gone,” I say, moving my hands away from him.

Shouts reverberate off the walls, and I shoot to my feet, standing amongst the small crowd that parts down the center. From the shadows of the cave’s entrance, dark silhouettes move toward us, and the moment they hit the dim light of the sconces, I scan their faces.

A man dressed in the signature black of Legion’s uniforms stumbles along, his hands bound behind his back, face bloodied, but recognizable.

Damian.

Behind him, Tripp gives one harsh slam to the soldier’s back, and Damian tumbles to the ground.

The next to breach the dark tunnel turns my blood cold.

Ivan Ericsson.

I’ve not seen him since the night I escaped from Calico, but he looks no different. The same as he appears in my nightmares.

Numbness spreads across my chest, and my lungs lock. My instinct is to hide. Run and hide. Every muscle trembles a warning, the familiar breath of fear skating down my spine, as it did when I was locked in Calico, forced to meet him in some dark and obscure corner of S block.

Like Damian, his face is bloodied and bruised, his eye swollen shut. Even with his arms bound behind him, though, the mere sight of him paralyzes my muscles.

Rhys strides in behind him, covered in blood, and one swift knock to Ivan’s back sends him flying to the ground beside Damian.

“Where’s Crank?” Tripp asks, pushing through the crowd toward the biker’s lifeless body.

I move with the other bodies, keeping myself out of Ivan’s sight.

Standing over Crank, Tripp stares down at his fallen friend, and his lips peels back to a snarl. He spins around, facing the Legion soldiers. “You. I’m going to fucking kill you!” Rushing forward, his body is captured by Rhys, who holds him back. “Let me go! Let me fucking go!”

Through the throng of bodies, I catch Ivan kicking himself away from Tripp, and I have to believe he’s the one who shot Crank.

“I want him dead! Dead!” Tripp sounds like a wild animal, a feral dog growling and barking, as he pushes and claws to get away from Rhys.

“Enough!” Rhys’s voice thunders through the cavern, and Tripp stills.

The two of them breathe heavily, and Rhys’s eyes find me in the crowd. My stomach settles at the sight of him, the silent assurance in his expression, and I keep my focus on him to avoid looking at Ivan.

Rhys grabs the back of Ivan’s shirt, pushing him to his feet, and Tripp does the same with Damian. The two brothers lead both soldiers down one of the dark tunnels—one I’ve never ventured into—and pitch blackness swallows them.

Once they’re out of sight, the crowd breaks into motion again, and Crank’s body rises up off the ground beside me, as Scarboy, who I now know as Ratchet, and Rigs carry him away.