Page 13 of Beast in the Badlands
As she comes back in, her brow furrows in concentration. “And I need to check those wounds.”
“I can manage,” I mutter, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.
“No,” she insists, not looking back at me as she pulls a med kit from one of the crates and returns to my side.
“The last time I was this weak,” I say slowly, relishing the memory that feeds into my anger, “I killed five men just to pretend I wasn’t.”
Her gaze meets mine—no flinch, no hesitation. Just that fierce light in her eyes. “You don’t need to prove anything to me.”
For a moment, the air shifts around us like a charged current; it pulls at something deep inside me—a yearning that threatens to surface. My hand hovers near hers but drops away before making contact.
She gets to work with practiced ease; each motion precise as she cleans the wounds on my legs and wraps them tightly.
Night falls quickly outside, darkness wrapping around us like a shroud as we finish unloading the last of the supplies together in silence.
Later, we sit across from each other at an old table littered with ration packs and scraps from our scavenging run. The quiet stretches long between us—the kind of silence thick enough to suffocate or ignite.
A low hum lingers in the space between us—a magnetic pull that makes every heartbeat feel louder than before—but neither of us moves beyond our separate worlds for now.
CHAPTER 10
EMRY
Morning light seeps through the jagged gaps in the ceiling, casting slanted rays across the cracked floor. I methodically check my med pack, fingers moving swiftly over the familiar items. I restock gauze and sealant, tighten the strap on my satchel. Each action is a ritual, grounding me in this chaotic world.
As I focus, a low groan breaks the stillness behind me. I glance back to see Renn stirring on the med bed. His eyes snap open, sharp and alert—like a predator roused from sleep. I turn back to my supplies, pretending his gaze doesn’t rattle me.
“Where are you going?” His voice cuts through the air, rough and gravelly, like he’s just emerged from a long hibernation beneath layers of fatigue and pain.
I don’t pause in my meticulous work; I keep my hands moving, focused on the task at hand. “Back to the Coalition med zone,” I reply, my tone steady and resolute.
“What? Why?” The sharpness of his tone makes me look up once more, and I see him struggling to sit up, muscles taut and tense under the bandages that cling to his form like a second skin. The effort it takes to prop himself up is evident, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of concern for him.
“Supplies are low there,” I respond matter-of-factly, returning to my task of checking antiseptic vials for leaks and ensuring everything is in order for when I inevitably head back into the fray. “The people who stayed behind need me more than ever.”
His posture stiffens at my words, and I can see the shadows deepening around his eyes as he processes the implications of what I’ve just said. “It’s dangerous.” The way he says it leaves no room for argument—a command laced with urgency, as if he believes that sheer will can shield me from the threats that lie beyond these walls.
I huff a laugh, though the air feels strained and brittle between us, a fragile thing that might shatter under the weight of our conversation. “You think I don’t know that?” I challenge, my voice tinged with defiance. I know the risks, the very real dangers that lurk in every corner of this war-torn world. But the determination to help those in need outweighs the fear that threatens to creep in.
“You could get yourself killed,” he presses on, his expression darkening further as if contemplating some dire fate for me.
I set down a vial and face him fully now, hands on my hips as annoyance flares within me. “And what would you have me do? Sit here and wait for someone else to take care of these people? They’re counting on me.” I sigh, grabbing the the drone Renn smashed when he first woke up here. "Besides, Fry needs to be repaired. Can't do it without his parts."
His jaw clenches tight, revealing the tension that radiates off him like heat waves from a fire. “You’re not thinking clearly.” The concern undercuts his harsh words—fierce and possessive in a way that unnerves me.
I snap the flap shut on my med kit and turn to face him squarely. “I’ve been doing this job for longer than you'veprobably committed to anything—alone—and I can damn well handle myself.”
Renn pushes himself upright, muscles straining under the bandages, his jaw locked tight. “You shouldn’t go alone anymore.”
My voice softens only slightly, but my stance remains firm. “I don’t get to stop just because someone bigger decided to start hovering.”
He narrows his eyes, frustration radiating off him like heat.
I step closer, driven by a mixture of anger and concern. “If they see you coming, they’ll shoot first. No questions. You think they’ll just let a giant Reaper waltz in while they’re bleeding out on stretchers?”
His expression darkens further as I remind him of his condition. “You’re still injured, Renn. You can barely walk.” I gesture at the wrappings around his legs. “And your little stunt yesterday? It only worsened the torn muscle.”
He growls low in his throat, an animalistic sound that sends a chill through me. I brace myself against the edge of the table, defiant and unyielding.
