Page 3 of Citadel

I’ve almost reached the boat the second time when the strap of my bag slips off my shoulder. It falls and the cans spill out onto the muddy ground.

I’m leaning over to retrieve them, cursing the hassle, when I’m suddenly aware of a presence.

A person. A man. Standing directly in front of me. He must have moved like a shadow for me not to have noticed him before now.

I straighten up slowly, edging a hand toward my knife.

He’s got guns—a pistol in his hand and a rifle strapped to his back—so my small knife is not going to matter.

He’s big. Both tall and muscular. He’s got a shaved head—just a dark stubble visible on his scalp—and weird silvery eyes like a wolf. He’s not exactly handsome, but he conveys strength. Power. Violence.

Even without the guns, I wouldn’t stand a chance against this man.

And here I am. Completely alone. Vulnerable. With a hoard of canned food that people would kill for nowadays.

His eyes move up and down my body. In assessment, not admiration. My body is barely visible beneath my baggy clothes, and it’s nothing to write home about anyway.

Other than his eyes, the man doesn’t move a muscle. He scans me and then the fallen food on the ground.

My survival instincts kick in. Flight is always safer than fight in my position. I hold up both hands in a universal gesture of surrender and start backing up slowly.

He can have the food. I’m not about to fight for those cans since we’ve been living for a long time on nothing but fish anyway.

But this man is tough. No softness in his big, hard body and no softness on the chiseled contours of his face. He’s wearing camouflage pants—faded and thinned from long use—and a gray T-shirt with sweat marks on his belly and underarms. He’s got dog tags on a chain around his neck and part of a scar visible on the right side of his neck.

One thing I’ve learned in the years since Impact.

A lot of men will kill or assault—merely because they can. It doesn’t require a reason.

This man might be one of them.

He doesn’t move or react as I back away from him, so that’s a relief. I can’t seem to look away from that fierce, silent gaze as I keep stepping backward slowly.

After a minute, I’m convinced he’s not going to attack me no matter how dangerous he might be.

I don’t know why I’m sure, but I am.

I haven’t gotten very far when I hear male voices in the distance. More than one. Loud. Rough.

Gasping, I jerk my head toward the noise. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard any voices other than our small group.

My eyes fly back to the man’s.

“Go,” he mutters, low and authoritative. “Now.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I recognize the urgency in his tone, and all my own instincts are screaming at me anyway. Turning on my heel, I take off in a run, and I don’t stop until I reach my boat.

I’ve climbed in and pushed off, paddling away from the shore as fast as I can when the other men come into view. They’re still a distance away. They look similar. Hardened mercenary types. Not anyone a woman wants to run into.

I’m out into the water when the others reach the first man. My distance vision has never been good, so I can only blurrily see their figures. It looks like they’re talking. Maybe looking out toward me. But it doesn’t matter.

The first man didn’t hurt me, and now I’m too far away for the others to reach.

* * *

It’s midafternoon when I get back, and Breanna is waiting down by the boats. She frowns disapprovingly as she grabs the mooring line, but she looks less annoyed when I show her my haul.

I’ve got the mugs and plates, plus one load of canned food.

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