Page 95 of Ember Rising

Breathing a little heavier, I shift slightly. I want to turn and shove him away, so hard he rolls off the bed and onto the floor. Just the soft touch of his thumb is too much.

“Hey.” His warm breath on my ear makes me want to scream. “You okay? You’ve got goose bumps.”

I sigh and roll onto my back. “I’m fine. Tired.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

I close my eyes because, oh, the irony of that question.

“No. I just don’t feel great.”

He puts a palm on my forehead. “You haven’t felt good for almost a week now. I’m worried about you.”

My heart races as I consider my options: keep lying to him, which I can’t keep up forever, or come clean.

“Can I tell you something?” I whisper.

“Are you ... pregnant?” The hope in his tone tears my heart in two.

“No. It’s ... I’m afraid to tell you.”

He pulls his head back slightly, and I can picture his puzzled expression, even in the pitch-black of night.

“You never need to be afraid of me. What is it?”

A tear slides down my cheek. I turn onto my side, facing him, and reach for his hand. The warm, solid feel of him comforts me and fills me with dread at the same time.

“I have a bag hidden under the bed,” I confess, my whisper barely audible. “I was going to leave when you guys were out today.”

His only response is a slight inhale.

“I can’t do it anymore,” I say, emotion welling in my throat. “The people last week. The ones you took the food and supplies from. I can’t eat that food. I can’t stop seeing the bloody handprint you had on your coat.” I take a shaky breath. “Justin is a monster. Those people were innocent. This stopped being about justice for your families a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” His whisper is as soft as mine. “You’re right.”

I knew he wouldn’t fly off the handle or hurt me—Donovan has never been anything but protective and loving with me—but I did expect him to argue. To tell me the Deadmen are his family and he has to go along with what they want.

“Do you think Justin will come after me if I leave?”

He doesn’t respond, which I guess is a response.

I sniffle, still holding his hand. “I love you, Donovan. You’re my best friend. But I can’t ... when you put your hands on me, all I can think about is the horrible things your hands do every day.”

He turns onto his back, releasing my hand.

I think I might throw up. Justin told me when the Deadmen took me in that I had to be sure. That there was no leaving.

I was desperately lonely. So tired of living in the shadows and trying not to get raped or murdered. What I knew that day was that I was safe with them. I couldn’t be more ashamed of who I’ve become in the name of self-preservation.

“I hate myself,” I say. “It could just as easily be me who gets murdered by you guys for being privileged. Those people aren’t, though, and neither am I. I don’t know why I survived when other people didn’t. No one warned me or sent me to a bunker full of food like Justin’s always ranting about.”

“He wasn’t always like this. I don’t know what happened to him. We pledged to hunt down the people who orchestrated the virus, but ... who is that? No one knows for sure. Justin needs to blame someone. He’s convinced himself that the survivors and their children couldn’t have done it without knowing what was coming.”

“But you guys survived it.”

His exhale is filled with the weight of his guilt. “That’s the hell of it. None of us would have wanted to, if we’d had a choice. It eats away at me that my family died while I was going about my life. We worked twelve hours a day, but we also ate meals and played cards. We did laundry. Was I folding my fucking laundry while my baby was dying?”

I squeeze his hand, knowing there’s nothing I can say.