Page 113 of Savagely Yours
One morning, I woke up thinking how nice it was that Dez had cleaned my place for me, not once considering that the smell of bleach was a result of a mess he’d made.
For all of Neal’s “I’m this way because I had a toxic father,” my sister was murdered. Her death nearly tore my family apart. Then, Dez’s story was on a completely different tier of tragic.
Most people had something to overcome, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t hold Neal accountable. For every Neal, there was at least one Dez. There were those who perpetrated and those who strived to avoid placing others in the powerless positions they were forced into. If we gave everyone with trauma in their pasts the green light to do evil, the world wouldn’t last another decade.
Plus, Dez was still lethal.
He was still a product of his trauma.
However, he opted to use his lethality in a less universally destructive way.
“I’m serious about you not having to leave,” Neal said. “Things are different now. It’s not safe out there?—”
He gasped.
I aimed my flashlight, and we both looked down at the same time. An Infected lay on the ground behind him, one bony hand wrapped around his leg, its teeth deep in the flesh just above the back of his foot. When Neal’s brain registered what was happening, he screamed and dragged his foot away. I crouched, jammed the knife into the Infected’s forehead, and prayed that was enough to kill it. Dr. Okoro had mentioned brain deterioration. To me, that meant it was possible that the brain remained a vulnerable organ.
The Infected went motionless.
Distorted groans echoed against the tunnel walls.
“How’d they get in here?” Neal asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We have to go.”
I raced back to the hatch, tucking away the knife and flashlight. When I realized I was alone, I glanced over my shoulder to find Neal staring at his foot.
“Matthew!”
His eyes met mine.
As if on autopilot, he limped over. The door had tightened due to the arm that got lodged between the seam, and I didn’t know what waited on the other side, but it had to be better than what was on its way.
“Help me pull,” I ordered.
“Larke, am I gonna die?”
“You will if we don’t get out of here.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Uh, I one hundred percent will. Trust me.”
I opened the hatch.
Outside was still pitch black.
“Larke, please.” He wrapped an arm around my waist. “I don’t want to die.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
He tugged.
I went stumbling toward him—almost. A harder tug, from a large hand curled around my forearm, dragged me in the opposite direction, out of the tunnels and into their grasp.
“Ronan?”
Dez looked down at me, brows narrowed.“Who?”
