Chapter 19

19

Bea

“ W e stop here.” Slate slid Rogue down to the floor gently.

“Why? Is something wrong? Is he okay?” Bea asked, coming up behind them. It felt like they’d been walking forever, but she knew it’d been nowhere near four hours.

“Rogue’s fine. I want to look at your feet,” Slate said tersely.

“My feet?” she asked, panicked. She’d been pushing herself as hard as she could, through pain that made it feel like she was stepping on razor blades with every step she took. She’d thought she was keeping pace with the man in front of her. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. But the way he was looking at her now, made her realize just how wrong she was.

Slate spread a cloth—the priest’s cloak—on the ground and pointed with his finger.

“Sit down.” It was an order, and one she didn’t think of disobeying. Her once white skirt, now heavily stained in greens and browns, fluttered around her. If Oscar Aguilar had had his way, that skirt would have been stained red. A different kind of stain.

Bea pulled in a choked breath as Slate kneeled in front of her and pulled off first her left, then her right slipper. Her feet looked like the raw meat used in the kitchen to make albóndigas . Bile rose to her mouth, but she forced herself to swallow it. She wasn’t going to throw up. Slate’s lips were a taught, thin line.

“You should have told me it was this bad.” He sounded angry, and it took her an instant to realize he was angry at himself, not at her.

“Please don’t leave me behind,” she begged.

The anger cooled from his eyes. He sighed. “Nobody’s leaving anyone behind,” he grunted.

Her body relaxed, like a balloon deflating, letting go of a tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. He pulled out a box of pills and various pouches from his seemingly never-ending first aid kit. She eyed them warily.

“What’s that?”

“Antibiotic ointment, gauze to wrap your feet in, and a painkiller.”

He put the pill on his palm and offered it to her with the water bottle. It looked tiny in his hand. “Put it under your tongue.”

Bea hesitated. “What if Rogue needs it?”

Slate sighed. “We’re close the pickup point. What Rogue needs is for you to take this. I’m going to bandage your feet now, and it’s going to hurt.”

He waited for her to swallow the painkiller before he began working. Bea focused on the colors of the jungle around her. Back in the convent, her art teacher had insisted there was no such thing as just green . Forest green. Teal. Hunter green. Jade. Pistachio.

A small whimper escaped her, brutally loud.

“I’m sorry,” Slate said gruffly. “I won’t be able to fix this, but this should stop the blisters from getting worse, and the painkiller should kick in soon. I gave you some of the good stuff.”

The good stuff. Apple green. Emerald green. Kelly green. Already, it seemed to her the pain was fading lightly. Even when Slate pulled on her shoes again, the pain was less agony and more a vague reminder that something wasn’t right.

“There. This is the best I can do for now. I’ll redo it once we’re … safe.”

He almost said home.

Except they weren’t going home. She didn’t have a home—hadn’t had a home for the longest time. But somewhere safe would have to do. Regardless of where it was, regardless of what happened to her, it would be somewhere her uncle and Oscar Aguilar couldn’t hurt her or Rogue. And that would have to do.

Slate put out a hand and she gripped it, letting him pull her to her feet effortlessly. Once she was sure she was steady, she let go of his hand—then looked up to find Rogue staring at her. His eyes blazed with concern … and anger. She wondered how long he’d been awake, and how much he’d heard.

“Rogue!” She ran to his side.

“How’re you doing, buddy?” Slate asked.

Rogue grimaced. “Everything hurts. Your shoulder is a fucking hard pillow, mate,” Rogue grimaced.

“I’ll have to work on that for next time,” Slate said mildly.

“How are you doing?” Rogue asked Bea.

“I’m okay,” she said. It was so good to see him awake, her eyes filled with tears once again. “I’m okay,” she rushed to say again. “They’re happy tears.”

A quick look passed between the two men, as if the concept of happy tears was foreign to them but they were both smart enough not to say anything.

Slate looked at his watch. “We need to get going,” he said. He leaned forward, getting ready to drape Rogue over his shoulders again.

“I can walk,” Rogue said. He struggled to a sitting position.

“I don’t think so, buddy,” Slate replied. “You’ll just slow us down.”

“Is that the bedside manner you learned in school?”

“I think I liked you better unconscious,” Slate said.

Rogue barked out a laugh.

“Let Slate carry you, Rogue. Please,” Bea begged.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll just lie here like a sack of potatoes.” He swallowed back a groan as Slate picked him up again. By the time Slate straightened to his full height, Rogue’s face was ashen, his eyes scrunched close. Instants later, his features smoothed out. He was unconscious again.

Bea prayed they were close. Regardless of how good a medic Slate was, it was clear Rogue needed a hospital.

Bea would walk as far as she had to in order to make that happen.