Page 4 of The Dead Don't Talk
Which is probably why he’s the leader? That, or the elders just didn’t know where else to put him.
There are stories about him, after all.
I roll my eyes up at the validity of those rumors, the fact that he’s still alive a test to their truth, and look out the window, the trees and brush whizzing by as we bump over the trail.
It doesn’t take long to drop us at the next post, run the drills, and move on. We do that sixteen more times before he finally dismisses us.
“But what about the last one?” I ask despite Cassia’s low growl and nudge of dismissal. I know she doesn’t want to miss the nightly bonfire, but I really want to see the last post.
It has just as many stories about it as Moros does.
Something about a cannibal? A loner that shoots and eats the decomposed?
I don’t believe those either.
“There is too much activity out there to take a group of fucking teenagers,” Moros half snarls out and I rear back.
“Sheesh. Just call us a liability, why don’t you.” He grumbles and straps his rifle across his chest as I keep talking. “And for the tenth time, I’m fuckingtwenty-three.”
“Take them back to camp.”
The glittering of keys flies through the air before smacking me in the chest and dropping to the ground.
“What?Me?Hell, no, I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter.”
He steps in close enough that I’m pretty sure he’s stamping the keys he just threw at me into the dirt, but I don’t give a fuck about any of that when his scent wafts up like a slap to the face.
It’s musky and sharp. Like sweat and pine and something else that I couldn’t name, even if I tried.
“Then what did you sign up for?”
Oof.
Chills run down my spine at the gruffness, the closeness, and I jut my chin when I feel the rest of the crew step back. Scatter. Take their seats back in the truck to be toted home like the good little Guards they are.
“I signed up because I’ve got something to prove,” I mutter back through clenched teeth. “And I’m not gonna let you stop me.”
He stares at me for a long beat, intense dark eyes bouncing between mine.
But then his nostrils flare. His forehead smooths. Like whatever he was questioning finally settled in his mind.
“Start walking.”
Chapter 2
The fucking baker.
Moros
Of all the recruitsthis year, the one that makes pies and goddamnedbreadis the one that’s not afraid of me.
Go figure.
“So why do they call you Moros?”
And he fuckingchats. Too much.
“It’s my name,” I mutter, my gaze swiveling all around the tall brush, my hand braced over the barrel of my weapon. Always ready. Always prepared.
