The Lonely Orphan (The Lost Planet 5)

Zoe’s features harden impossibly so. “If she so much as looks at you wrong, you’re out of here. Feel me, bro?”

“Likewise, sister.”

She frowns. “No…I wasn’t like referring to you as…” She sighs heavily. “Whatever. Just stay out of my way.”

And I do.

For hours and hours.

I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I don’t assist the others.

Willow and some girl named Julie, with Theron’s help, have taken over for Lyric and have been assessing the others in the prison. Every so often, the infirmary takes on another. Of the three who were before Lyric, two of them are now turning red. I saw the male scratch at his forearm, even in his slumber.

“We’ll need to restrain them,” I state huskily, peeling my gaze from Lyric’s pretty face that glistens with sweat.

Zoe yawns and jerks her nog to my line of sight. “Why? They’re conked out.”

“That one. He’s getting the sores,” I inform her.

“Bruce? Yeah, that fucker deserves the sores. If it weren’t for Lyric holding me back, I would’ve given that asshole some sores of my own a long time ago,” Zoe practically snarls.

“This Bruce hurt you?”

“Better question is, who didn’t he hurt?”

My sub-bones start popping one by one as I rise to my full height, baring my double fangs at the threat. I can feel my claws practically extending with the need to rip his rekking face off.

“Did he hurt Lyric?” I growl, my chest rumbling with fury.

Zoe smacks me in the stomach and I jolt back in surprise. “Of course he hurt her. Whipped up on her a lot because, in case you haven’t noticed, she’s mouthy.”

Oh, I noticed.

It brings a smile to my face because I can imagine the fire in her eyes. She isn’t the type to take abuse without a fight. My brave, fiery female.

“When he tried to force himself on her once, I lost it.” Her eyes grow stormy and my sub-bones begin popping again. “I hit him over the head with a chair. Broke one of the legs off. I was going to…” Her lips turn up into a feral grin that gives me the chills, making me wonder if the fever is hitting me as well.

“Going to what?”

She makes a circle with her finger and thumb while pretending to jam her fist through the tiny hole. “An eye for an eye, motherfucker.”

I’ve heard Molly use this phrase before, minus the last bit. I think she used “D-bag” or “butt licker,” though. Regardless, it means the same. Not only doling out a punishment that fits their crime, but one that matches what was inflicted to the victim.

“Did you?” I ask eagerly.

She smirks. “No. Ol’ girl there told me to back off and then the guards were there before we knew it, breaking things up. I told him, though. That I was coming for him when he least expected it. I’d do to him what he did to other women.” She laughs cruelly. “But much, much worse.”

“I could find you a blunt object and assist,” I offer seriously.

Zoe cackles. “Oh my God. I like you, man. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Seems as though there are worse things than Zoe liking me.

“I like you too, Kevin hunter.”

Our banter is cut short when said Kevin jolts upright in his bed, his eyes milky white and his blunt teeth bared. He doesn’t attack us, but instead begins slashing at his arms with his nails. The humans may not have claws, and aren’t usually able to inflict harm with their nails, but this one does. Blood blooms in lines as he shreds his own flesh.

“Quick,” I bark out to her as I stalk over to him. “Find me rope or something to restrain him.” I pounce on him, pinning his arms so he doesn’t rip his skin right off. He howls in agony. I bask a little in his pain, but it’s short-lived knowing this is Lyric’s future.

Zoe is gone for what feels like an exceptionally long time. She returns with the clanging of what sounds like zuta-metal. The devices remind me of the ones Oz made for Jareth once, though I don’t know why Jareth needed them. They were unbreakable and meant for restraint. She tosses two sets at me.

“Handcuff each wrist to the bed,” she instructs. “I’ll get his ankles.”

After a grueling couple of minutes, we manage to get him restrained. He curses and struggles to no avail. Then, through his clouded vision, he begs.

“Please,” he sobs. “It itches. I just need to scratch it. Scratch it for me.”

“I’ll watch him,” I tell her. “Go see if Avrell knows of something to help with the itching.”

Her lip curls up. “I don’t want to help him.”

Looking past her, I point at one of the women on the bed who absently scratches at her stomach in her sleep. “Bring more of the zuta-metal binders too.”