Page 24 of Chaos
Alive. But so fucking fragile.
“I didn’t realize that’s what we were,” I mutter.
“Would you rather be something else?” Colleen spits back. “Because between burning town, the men you killed, and now the bullets you traded for her, we’re close to outrightrevolt. We can’t start committing summary executions. It’ll be the last straw before this community is destroyed. You want us to be safe, you find bullets to replace the ones you traded. Focus on that. Let me handle Ben.”
Frankie’s eyes close again, but her pulse stays strong under my thumb. From the bruising along her forehead, it’s pretty likely she’s going to have a concussion, but we can deal with that.
And we can deal with bullets somehow.
As long as she’s alive.
“He needs to stand a trial. It’s the only path toward civilization and organization. We cannot arrest and execute summarily. I will not allow Thornewood to turn into a dystopian nightmare. I won’t. And that’s the path to it.”
It feels like waking up from a long dream where shades were always gray, and sound that ran on only one wavelength, and suddenly it’s all back, a hundred colors and a thousand sounds, too many problems stacking up like towers blocking out the sun, and all I want to do is leave the world behind, pack up Frankie, Auden, Shane, and the dog and find someplace that’s simpler where we can live in the sun.
I don’t trust myself to talk after that.
Jacquetta parks the car at the back of the resort.
I carry Frankie’s unconscious body inside, past unfriendly soldiers, straight to Sheila, who’s just finished stabilizing Wendell.
After that, we’ll get her clean.
I wish I could wash away the memories of what happened to her in there, but I doubt it’ll be so easy.
7|TheFlower-verse
FRANKIE
YORKE.
God, Yorke. The sight of him aches in my chest.
He’s in three-quarter view.
The light is behind him, bright heavy-clouds rising up, gold and glittery and glowing, reflecting off the sharp ridges of his cheekbone. Everything is blurry at the edges, overbright like it’s been subjected to a sunset filter.
He’s sitting near my legs, the weight and warmth of him pressing against my hip, his shoulders shifting as his hands move, lashes lowered, focused on what he’s doing.
There’s a sound, tinkling, wet, drippy, and a tickle as something warm slides against my hand.
His jaw is clenched, nostrils flared, his lips smashed up tight.
Even angry, he’s the safest thing I’ve ever seen.
I want to tell him to stop scowling, the nightmare must be over if we’re together. I just want to be me again.
But then everything in my recent experience has taught me thatsafepluswarmthplusglowing, glittery heaven cloudsequalsnot real.And I don’t want to fall for it and then wake up in hell again. My head is pounding, my fingers and elbow burning. It’s like the gold and glitter is a curtain, and right behind it is pain and fear. An inhale reveals the underlying stench of the cellar.
“Dream,” comes eeking out of my mouth and a wave of dizziness washes over me.
His dark lashes sweep up to my face. God, I missed those eyes, like salted caramel or tea just after you add the honey. “No.”
No? “Real?”
He nods.
“You … sure?” My voice sounds awful. Worse even than I feel. Dry and crackly as an old corn husk.