Page 111 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

The soldier wannabe took another step forward, unaware he was inches from disaster. His foot caught a wire—followed by a sharp snap, then a brief, loaded silence.

A plastic tub tipped from above, dousing him in something murky and foul that hit with a wet thud. He gasped, sputtered, and then let out a sharp, startled scream as a second trap went off, sealing his humiliation.

A cloud of feathers, dried leaves, and—oh God—something else rained down over him. The smell hit me like a punch in the face. It was wet and rank. Almost sweet but in that horrifying, rotting way that turned your stomach inside out.

I gagged and clamped both hands over my nose and mouth. Malcolm yanked his collar up and leaned closer, whispering through the fabric, “That one was my idea.”

The man on the ground howled like he was being tortured as he rolled through the leaves, smearing the gunk deeper into his clothes. He flailed wildly, feathers sticking to his face and leaves tangled in his straps. His screams dissolved into heavinggasps and curses, and I could feel Malcolm shaking with silent laughter beside me.

Eventually, the guy staggered to his feet—filthy, dripping, and smelling like something that had died twice—and bolted into the trees, stumbling like he couldn’t get away from himself fast enough.

Malcolm turned to me, still grinning. “It was some roadkill I picked up on the way here mixed in some swamp water. I may have also added a couple other...founditems.”

I stared at him in horror. “Who picks up roadkill and random crap, just in case?”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Someone who wants to protect his baby cousin from assholes.”

“You’re insane.”

He shrugged, totally unbothered. “I play dirty.”

And honestly, thank God he did. Because in this kind of fight, “dirty” just might be our best shot at survival.

Chapter 34

Gabby

The air was too still. Even the insects had gone quiet like the bayou itself was holding its breath. I crouched low beneath the thick foliage, shoulder pressed against the damp ground, with my heart thudding so loudly I was sure it would give me away. Malcolm was a few feet away, hidden deeper in the undergrowth, but I could feel his attention shift when the crunch of footsteps got too close.

“Move now,” he whispered, barely audible.

I turned my head slightly, catching the glint of his eyes. “I can’t,” I hissed. “I'm not capable of moving fast. At least, not without making noise.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, Malcolm did precisely what I should have stopped him from doing—he moved. Fast and deliberate, breaking a branch or two and dragging his foot through the leaves just enough to pull whoever was coming away from me.

I watched him go, my gut twisting with guilt. He was risking himself for me, just like all of them were. Because I’d stepped into a storm and brought it to their front door. And yet here I was—hidden, broken, and doing nothing to help.

My hand tightened around Tinkerbell, the cool grip grounding me. I stayed motionless, forcing my lungs to slow down even as my head pounded and my ribs throbbed from even the smallest breath. I listened hard, focusing on the movement ahead, the brush shifting, and the leaves crackling. There were more footsteps treading lighter this time.

I assumed it was Malcolm settling into a new position, so I started crawling.

The movement was slow and agonizing. Every shift of my body sent pain radiating through my side, and my cast dragged clumsily over the uneven terrain. My head spun, vision tilting at the edges, but I didn’t stop. I needed to move. I needed to feel like I was doing something.

After what felt like forever, I slipped beneath a new patch of brush—thicker and lower to the ground, with a good view of the clearing beyond. I exhaled slowly once I'd settled, trying not to groan.

Then I heard it—a soft rustle, followed by a high-pitched whine that cut through the quiet. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. The sound came again, and through the shifting leaves, I caught a glimpse of movement.

A thin, scruffy dog emerged from the trees, its ribs clearly visible beneath patches of matted fur. One ear flopped sideways in a way that was almost comically sad. Its nose twitched as it sniffedthe air, clearly drawn by the scent of whatever survival food was smeared on my clothes or hidden in my pocket.

The tension in me melted almost instantly.

“Hey, baby,” I cooed quietly, barely louder than the breeze. “Come here, it’s okay.”

I clicked my tongue, fingers curling to reach for one of the tuna tins I’d grabbed earlier. The dog stepped forward warily, its eyes flicking from side to side.

Then it happened—a sudden, jarring stomp as heavy boots crashed through the underbrush.

A hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed the dog by the scruff, yanking it violently into the air. The animal let out a sharp, panicked yelp, a sound so raw and terrified it cut straight through me. I froze, the noise still echoing in my ears, my body locked in place as fear rooted me to the spot.

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