Page 85 of Warrior

Another door opens, and a man staggers into the room. He raises his weapon, a rifle that has prodded me in the back many times. Before the muzzle lifts high enough, a shot comes from the front entrance.

He drops like a stone.

“Artemis,” he calls again, and the voice finally registers.

A voice I didn’t think I would ever hear again.

“She’s here,” one of the women whispers.

An overhead light flickers on, and my heart cracks open.

My twin brother, Apollo, enters the room with his gun at his side. There’s a spray of blood across his face and chest. Only when he spots me, as if I have a spotlight on me, do I move from the wall.

How long has it been since I’ve seen him?

He was sold to a gang.

I was sold to Terror.

But I’ve lost track of time.

My staggered steps become a sprint toward him. He catches me easily, his arm banding around my back and his other hand cupping my head. He holds me steady for a minute, then slowly releases me.

“We need to go,” he says. “Are there other women?”

I glance back and catalog them.

When I look back, he’s removed his shirt. His gun stowed in the waistband of his jeans, he takes a second to wrangle my arms through, then my head.

The loose fabric falls around my body, hitting mid-thigh.

I don’t have it in me to blush. I’ve been in a state of undress since I arrived at Terror.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Hold it together, Tem.”

I swallow and lift my chin.

I’ve never had tohold it togetherbefore. When Mom told me Apollo was gone, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. This wholeexperience has made me numb, but that’s not keeping my composure.

That’s shock.

That’s trauma.

He curls his arm around my shoulders. “Tell them.”

My throat has closed.

I’m no saint. I’m certainly not the warrior he thinks I am.

It doesn’t stop him from saying, “The guards are gone, ladies. Let me get you out of here.”

They unpeel from the wall, from each other, and creep toward us. Some grab blankets, wrapping them around the shoulders of the others. The ones who escaped the drugs guide out the incoherent ones.

We exit into the front room. I’d imagined what it looked like. I was shuffled in through the back when I first arrived, never seeing the client entrance. There are couches, a desk.

But now there are dead guards. At least five of them, one fallen across the desk, another on the couch. Blood pools under their bodies. A laptop lies smashed on the floor.

“You’re okay,” Apollo assures me.

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