Page 35 of Princess

“Yeah. Really tired.”

“Well, get some sleep. We’ll figure everything else out tomorrow.”

“Okay.” My body is already softening against him. I feel better right now than I have in hours. Like maybe the world isn’t falling apart.

Like maybe he can help me hold it all together.

“It’s okay.” He sounds just as tired as I feel. He’s speaking now in a soothing whisper. “It’ll be okay. Just get some sleep. I’ve got you.”

He does. He has me.

I fall asleep on that thought.

* * *

It’s several hours later when I wake up, and I have no idea where I am or what time it is. It’s pitch-black in the room. It smells faintly like a barn and a lot like Grant.

I’m still clinging to him, but I’ve somehow scooted down as I slept, so my head is resting on his belly.

I can feel it rising and falling. I squeeze his side and shift a little.

We’re at New Haven, I finally realize. The camp was taken over. Our people are trapped in the bunker. And Noah is dead.

Grant is awake. His hand has been tangled in my hair, and he moves it slightly, trying to extricate his fingers.

I sniff and lift my head, trying to see him in the dark.

“All right?” he asks.

“Yeah. I need to pee.” I manage to sit up without poking him in the gut with my elbow. “I don’t really want to go out there by myself in the dark.”

It’s safe at New Haven. We’re behind walls that are closely guarded, and Faith and Jackson don’t let anyone in here if they can’t be trusted.

But still…

“I’ll come with you.” He groans slightly as he heaves himself up.

“Are you all right?” I ask, suddenly worried about him. It sounded like something was hurting him.

“Yeah.”

“You weren’t injured, were you?”

“No. Of course not.” He’s rustling through the bag he brought with us, and then the pale light of a flashlight suddenly fills the room. “Just a little sore.”

“Sore from what?”

He gives me a narrow-eyed look in the faint light. “From life. I’m not as young as you are, you know.”

I surprise myself by giggling. “How old are you anyway? I know it’s kind of hard when you get up toward forty.”

He sucks in a breath. “I’m thirty-four.”

I giggle again but try to stifle it as we head outside so I can use the outhouse.

I feel better when we return to our tiny room and climb back into our tiny bed. It’s still the wee hours of the morning—far too early to consider getting up. I can sleep some more.

And maybe things won’t seem so bad tomorrow morning.

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