The Girl Who Kicked Ass (Death Fields 3)

That’s when I notice his backpack—he doesn’t go anywhere without it--and feel a small sense of relief. He’ll have a small amount of supplies in there to at least get us through the next day or so. He offers me a metal bottle, the cap unscrewed. It’s not as heavy with water as I’d like so I only take a small sip, just to clear the dust from my throat.

He rummages around and holds out his hand. Two small pills are nestled in his calloused, dusty palm. “Take those for your head.”

I swallow the pills with more water and watch him. It’s hard not to get caught up in his physicality. He’s lean but muscular. He has a fiery red scrape arcing over his bicep and another small, clotting cut near his collarbone. The hollow of his cheeks, like the circles under his eyes, give me the impression he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days.

“What’s happening here, Wyatt?” I ask.

He looks around the space, still kneeling by the bag. “I’m looking for a way to get out of here without the whole ceiling collapsing on top of us.”

I grab his arm and he looks down at me. “No, why are you here? For real? Whose side are you on?”

I’d be a fool if I expected a straight answer, but to his credit he replies, “I’ve been out here for a couple weeks prepping the team to transition from evacuation center to vaccine distribution. I knew you guys were coming in, but we didn’t anticipate the Eater attack. At all.”

I open one eye and squint. “You knew we were coming?”

He stands and moves to the side of the space that leads back down the hallway. From here it looks entirely impassible.

“Of course I knew.”

“Did Jane know?” He shifts a beam and a wave of ceiling rushes to the ground. We both look up and wait, but nothing else falls. I ask again. “Did she?”

My head is killing me. From the fall. From Wyatt. I drop my forehead into my hands.

“Hey,” he says. He’s in front of me, on his knees, taking my hands in his. “You okay?

“No, Wyatt, I’m not okay.” I jerk away from him and make a very labored, mistaken effort to stand. I fail and sit back down with my arms crossed over my chest. “Jane made the right decision when she chose you for her model, you know that? You’re nothing but a robot. Going from mission to mission, deal to deal, with no consideration for anyone else. There’s no end game. No good or bad guys. It’s just Wyatt versus The World, and God forbid those who get in your way and expect a little honesty.”

“Is that right?”

“You told me yourself this is what you’re made for. War.”

He knees in front of me, jaw tense. “You’ve gotten pretty good at it, too, since we first met. Don’t think I’m not aware of your little resistance. The sabotage and internal destruction. She sent me out here as punishment, for letting you escape last month—for the shit you’ve pulled since then.”

I scoff. “Why does she blame you?”

He stares at me, hard, and I squirm under the glare. “You think you got away on your own? You think you made it here without assistance?” He leans closer and I can see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. “You think I’m not your fairy fucking Godmother? I may not have wings but let me tell you, I’m the best ally you have out here.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

He frowns and shakes his head. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

I sigh. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I don’t get you, Wyatt. That’s what I don’t understand. I’m not intentionally trying to be dense.”

I sway, my head swimming from pain. He reaches for me and places one hand on the back of my neck and another around my waist. I expect his touch to be rough, like his attitude, but it’s not. His hands are supportive but gentle.

“You sister is punishing me for my connection to you. She has no idea I’m working with Erwin and that I have been for months. She doesn’t know I’m your contact in the PharmaCorp system and that I’ve been feeding your teams intel for weeks. She was pissed after I got back with your father and didn’t have you with me. She may be cold and vindictive and a little out of her fucking mind, but she’s not dumb. She knows I care for you.”

His confession whirls around my brain and I get hung up on various parts. The big one—at least at this very moment, when his hand tense against my back and his mouth is so very close—is the one about feelings.

“I can’t—I can’t be with you at Fort Arnold right now. Not the way things are. I’m better served undercover anyway. Out there,” he gestures beyond the crumbling walls. “We’re not on the same team even if we’re fighting the same battle. I’m the mercenary. You’re the Resistance.”

“But what about in here? Right now?” I ask, as though my brain can’t keep up.

He takes my head into both hands and gives me sweet smile, before his expression turns into something different. Primal. My fingers grip the fabric of his shirt and I lean closer.

I think he may do it, for the briefest moment, but the look vanishes and he gives me a sad smile. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut as well as in the back of the head, but I shouldn’t expect more.

Can Wyatt even navigate feelings like this? No, I think, as he struggles in front of me. Not with a battle raging on outside these doors.