my stitches. These men deserve the risk because they are the reward. They saved me, saved my friends, and someone has to save them.
Even if it means sacrificing myself.
They are worth it.
What am I worth?
I’ve done nothing to add to the goodness of the world. I’m not special. There is nothing amazing about me. I cut. I’m depressed. I need more help than help can offer. The porch groans, and I hiss when I take my first step on to the stairs. The wood is hot, boiling actually. The step gives way under my foot. I can smell my flesh burning, and I step away, wondering how I’m going to do this.
I’ve been through worse.
I can handle this.
Limping, I walk backward and then sprint, climbing up the staircase and bolt inside. I run in place so my feet aren’t on the floor longer than a second. I can’t see anything. It’s so hot I can’t barely stand it. “Skirt!” I call out for him. I taste the burnt leather of the couch in the back of my throat and gasp for fresh air.
I don’t hear anything, only crackling of furniture, breaking of wood, and the static of the oranges and yellows licking the walls, roof, and parts of the floor. “Skirt!” I try again, lifting my arm to block the smoke.
The roof creaks above me, and I look up, watching shingles dissolve and fall, floating around me.
Oh. Shit.
I run to the left where there’s a hallway and see a door open right as a piece of the roof falls in, crushing the couch.
That could have been me.
A small groan from the room in front of me sounds in the wreckage. I tiptoe, doing my best to keep my arms to my chest. Everything hurts. I’m insane. My head is spinning, my eyes are like sandpaper, blood is dripping down my elbows, and the bottoms of my feet are burnt. I’m nowhere close to getting out of here.
I might die trying to save Skirt.
Running into the room, the smoke is thick, but the flames haven’t reached this room. Another groan penetrates the air, and I fall to my knees and decide to crawl around the room. The floors aren’t too hot. They are warm, tolerable, which is good. My feet need a break.
“Skirt?” I cough again and then fall flat on my face. I’m tired. The smoke is too much. I can’t breathe. My head is pounding, and I can’t feel the pain in my arms any longer. I can’t feel anything. “Sk-irt,” I stutter, and when I hear another moan of pain, it wakes me up. I dig my nails into the wood and drag myself along the floor. My gown has to be in pieces by now, but I don’t care. I’ve come to the realization that I’m going to die trying to get out.
“Mmm,” a mournful sound comes from the side of the bed.
They deserve this.
Skirt deserves to live.
I need to pay it forward.
When I stretch my hand out, I hit something solid, firm. It’s a beam. I follow it, and underneath it is a body. I stay on my knees, and the wood rubs against my skin making it raw. The rough feel of denim glides against my palms as I try to find Skirt’s face.
He moans again.
“Skirt, it’s Joanna.” Another coughing fit takes over. “Let’s get out of here.” I push my feet against the wall and my back against the beam, hoping it’s enough to push it off his back. The wall bellows in weakness from the damage sustained to the house. I grunt, letting a strained warrior cry escape my mouth and mingle with the blaze as I use every ounce of strength I have left.
I fall backward as the beam moves off Skirt’s back.
Holy Shit. I did it.
But the momentum and the exhaustion sends me to the floor instead of to Skirt’s side. It’s too hard. My arms hurt. My feet hurt. I can’t do it. I thought I could. I thought I could save him and repay the favor for what the Ruthless Kings have done for me.
But I failed.
I always fail.
My eyes hood, and the flames come into the doorway as my vision starts to blacken around the edges. Damn it, I’m so close. I’m too close. Shutting my lids as my head lulls to the side, I wheeze in a breath and stare at the reflection of the red and orange streams in the window.
The window.
I try to push up