And no one apologizes.
Mom would have better served me and Mitchell by teaching us less about manners and more about how to be ruthless. How to survive. It’s a bitter truth.
Alone, I drop my head back on the bed. Tension eases from my muscles as I lower my guard. I can relax here in this place. At least for a little while.
I carefully test my arm, seeing how much I can comfortably move it. I wince when I rotate my shoulder and quickly put a stop to that. I glance at the door, wondering how long I’ll have to wait for someone to come and speak to me. It seems like forever ticks by as I lie there. The silence grows oppressive. Or maybe it’s just the knowledge eating at me that I’m actually underground. I shove off the notion that I’m buried alive in one giant coffin with a swarm of carriers, ants ready to devour one another.
Exhaling a heavy breath, I lift myself up on the gurney and swing my legs over the side. I stare at my cotton gown for a moment, plucking at the paper-thin fabric, and deliberately don’t think about the fact that they undressed me. A flash of amber-brown eyes fills my mind. Heat scores my cheeks, and I can’t help hoping he didn’t see that much.
The memory of him chases me. His eyes. His voice. The singing. Caden. My interaction with him was like something from a dream, fuzzy snapshots, but I recall the deep timbre of his voice as they cut my shirt from my body. He’d been right there. Of course he noticed.
“Perfect,” I mutter, easing my bare feet down to cool concrete. Are we really underground? A shiver passes through me. It doesn’t seem possible, and yet I know it is. People have been making underground bunkers, dungeons, for centuries.
I glance up as if I expect to see dark earth, complete with dangling worms and tree roots. Instead a typical ceiling stares back at me, including air vents.
Facing forward again, I take cautious steps, easing toward the door that didn’t seem so far before but now feels miles away as I inch toward it with shuffling steps. Maybe I’m still under the influence of whatever they gave me to help me sleep. It’s easier to accept that than that I’m really this weak.
Sweat trickles down my spine. All of me is flushed with suffocating heat. I’m panting by the time I reach the door. My hand seizes the latch desperately, clinging to it as if the slim hook of metal can support me and keep me from falling.
I pull down. Then up. Nothing.
I rattle the latch wildly, confirming that it’s locked. Grunting in defeat, I glare at the door like it’s a living thing standing in my way. An opponent. One in a long line of many.
They locked me in like I’m some sort of prisoner. I slap the door with my hand, ignoring the sting in my palm as I shout. “Open this door! You can’t keep me trapped in here!”
Of course that’s just what they’re doing. I didn’t escape Mount Haven for this.
I don’t know how long I shout, but I’m hoarse and exhausted when the door suddenly flings wide, nearly knocking me down. I stumble, catching myself, my hand flying to my racing heart.
Caden enters the room, closing the door firmly behind him. I blink at his sudden appearance. The bright fluorescent lighting reveals him to be much different from my hazy recollections of him inside a dim cave or against the dark mountainous landscape.
His hair is untamed, like he just finished running his hands through it. The dark strands gleam with moisture and jut in every direction. He looks decidedly cleaner than I remember. I can smell the soap on his tan skin. Probably just stepped out from a shower. He’s freshly shaved, too, and the strong cut of his jaw and cheekbones is more pronounced.
“Caden,” I murmur, my gaze moving up the familiar boots, past the clean yet well-worn fatigues.
“You’ve learned my name.” He pauses to smile at me. “Davy.”
Someone told him my name? Had he asked about me? I just assumed that he forgot about me after dumping me here. Girl rescued. Chore done.
I nod.
He crosses his arms, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight over his firm-looking chest. I realize he’s waiting for me to say something when he adds, “You needed something, Champ?”
I drag a sharp breath into my lungs. “Champ?”
“Yeah. For someone sporting a gunshot wound, you’re really . . .” His gaze scans me, and I’m hyperconscious of my thin hospital gown, which could stand to be a few inches longer. “Durable.”
“Durable?”
“Yes. Fit. As in strong, athletic.” He shakes his head. “Did you just raise hell so I could come in here and you could repeat everything I say?”
“Maybe I just wanted you to return for an encore performance?”
He angles his head, a slow smile curving his lips. “Ah. You remember me singing.”
“Maybe. A little bit.” I straighten, swiping the short strands of hair back from my face. It’s an automatic gesture left over from when my hair was longer. The strands feel awful, grimy under my fingers, and I envy him his shower. “Why did you do that?”
“What? Sing?” He shrugs. “I dunno. It felt like the thing to do right then.”
I moisten my lips. A part of me buried away could understand when singing just felt like the right thing to do. “Weren’t you worried someone could have heard you?” Like people who prefer us dead.
He rubs at the back of his neck like he’s a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I was a little worried about that.” But he did it anyway. He sang. “Crazy as it sounds, you were in bad shape, and I thought it might help.”