The Girl Who Broke Free (Death Fields 5)

I look away, blinking away the tears, and further my resolve.

“You okay?” he asks, despite my efforts.

“I’m tired.” The words don’t convey my feelings.

“No one expects you to do anything. Erwin—everyone—wants you to rest and heal. It’s what they wanted me to do too when I first got here.”

“Why? So you can be a better cog in their wheel? A sharper blade? A more accurate bullet?”

He wraps his arm around me and as much as I want to pull away—keep up some sort of barrier to protect my heart and soul, I relent, desperate for some kind of affection after those months of isolation.

“Do you want out? Away from the fighting?”

“No.” I shake my head. “That’s just it. I don’t know what I want. I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m stressed and anxious.”

“You’ve been back for twelve hours, Alex. Give yourself a break.”

A wave of anxiety takes over and I hop from the bed. My skin itches and the air feels tight in my throat. My eyes connect with the door and I race toward it.

“Where are you going?” Wyatt asks, the bed springs creaking as he stands.

“I’ve got to—” I choke up, the words lodged in my throat. I do

n’t know what I need what I have to do. But I need air. So much air, and I dart down the hallway barefoot and dressed in nothing but a tank top and shorts.

I stumble—nearly fall—down the stairway to the door that exits onto the corner of Main Street and Maple. The concrete is hard under my feet but the air out here is fresh; I can’t seem to take it in and I spin around and around until a pair of strong hands jerks me to a stop.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey, look at me.”

I take in his face and his eyes and I blink, trying to make it real. “You were dead, Wyatt. Dead. I heard her shoot you. I mourned you.”

“I know.” He pulls me close to his chest. His skin is warm and the fast-paced rhythm of his heart matches in tune with my breathing. “I’m here. I’m alive and babe, so are you.”

We stand in the street, exposed. Wyatt’s physical scars are on display along with my emotional ones. I’m aware people can see us. I know a pair of soldiers on shift are watching us carefully and two shopkeepers peer from their windows.

“I’m going to kill her.” I say this with unparalleled resolve. “She’s taken too much.”

He says nothing to my threat but takes my hand, leading me back inside. The door shuts and we’re in the hallway. I stop on the second step so we’re eye to eye. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Will you help me?” I ask.

“It won’t be easy.”

“I’m willing to make the sacrifices it will take to bring her down. Aren’t you?”

He nods, his jaw tight. There’s no other way and we’ve tried every alternative to stop Chloe before. I’m tired of running—tired of fighting. I don’t say it out loud, but I know from the burning hatred in the center of my chest that killing Chloe may be the only thing that keeps me going.

*

With a firm plan taking root, I hole up in Wyatt’s tiny apartment. I do as he suggests, sleeping and eating. I make every attempt to heal myself, with the specific goal of preparing for the battle ahead.

He doesn’t seem to notice the motivation behind my cooperation, instead giving me relieved looks as though he’s thankful I’ve come to my senses. To be fair, I’m being intentional. I want him to think I’m fine. That everything is okay and that my breakdown over Chloe that first day back was just that, a breakdown. So I keep my expression and tone light as I’m snuggled up in bed, wrapped in blankets and propped against soft pillows. It’s a luxurious feeling and after all the months of hard cots and prison life I have to pinch myself to make sure it’s not just a hallucination.

A week passes and I allow no visitors but my father and sister. Our visits are quick and Wyatt leaves us alone. Jane looks hollow. A shell of even the person that healed me back at Chloe’s headquarters. She refuses to talk about Avi and I allow her that space. My father just looks tired. They don’t discuss projects but I know neither are idle. It’s not in their nature. Just like me sitting back and letting a psycho bitch dominate the remains of society.

When they leave, Wyatt returns to the apartment. He’s dressed in his specific style of work clothes: Camouflaged pants, tight white shirt, canvas jacket. His boots are clean. I note two weapons strapped to his leg and the handle of a knife poking out of his boot. He can tell me he feels safe behind these walls, but all that armor and the tense set of his jaw suggests otherwise.