Wild Like Us - Krista Ritchie Page 0,69

behind him. “How do you feel about going topless, Kits?” His shirt hangs by one inch of fabric at his shoulder.

“Rip it,” he tells me.

To do that, I’ll have to put the gun down. Instead, I decide to lean in and take the fabric in my teeth. I tear it off easily, and the bloodied shirt falls to the ground.

Akara watches me for a long second, and when my eyes meet his, I’m throttled with his worry. “Sul, you’re going to have to set it down eventually.”

“Not yet.” It scares me how much my voice shakes.

“Okay.” There’s pain behind his eyes. A different kind of pain. He knows it’s not okay. I’m not okay.

Banks comes over, his hand just covers mine for a second. Encased over my fingers and the hilt of the gun. He stays there.

My pulse is in my throat. “I can’t…” I shake my head.

“You can. It’s alright. I’m right here. Akara is here.”

I choke out, “I need to protect myself.” Is that it? I think I’m more terrified of not being able to help them again. Of losing them, of being alone.

The emptiness.

The painful, guttural cavern they’d leave behind. How could that ever be filled again?

Akara reaches out to me and places a hand on my back. “You don’t need the gun to do that, Sulli. You can let go.”

Banks never forces the gun from my grip. He waits.

His hand feels more like a comfort. So does Akara’s on my back.

And slowly, I loosen my fingers and release my clutch.

Banks checks the safety on my gun, then stores it safely in a backpack. None of us can hug, not when we need to clean up and deal with our wounds. So that’s what we do first.

Quietly and methodically, we use the lanterns to help assess Akara’s wounds.

The worst gashes are along his shoulder blade and a bite mark near his elbow. Akara washes off the blood with water. Antiseptic, gauze, and a tight bandage—that should hold up until we see Farrow.

“If you feel dizzy at all, you better tell us,” I say to him.

“I will,” Akara promises.

Banks pulls off his shirt and lowers his shorts. Dried blood stains his skin. I shrug off my Camp Calloway tee and cargo shorts. Blood drips from my hair and down to my chest, soaking into my sports bra.

There is no hesitation. I can’t keep it on. Gripping the bottom elastic band, I pull off the bra and let it fall to the ground.

We’re all standing, and I stay between Akara and Banks. For some reason, this feels the safest. I stop shaking between their warmth and height. I pile my hair up into a high bun.

“Where does it hurt?” Akara asks me.

“My waist mostly,” I whisper. “Right here.” I reach down to the spot near my belly button. The blood is mine, not the cougars’.

Carefully, Akara pours water over the claw mark. I bite down in a wince, and Banks uses a cloth to wipe the blood away. Revealing fresh scratches. We rip open more bandages. Add more antiseptic to each other. I can tell they’re trying hard not to cause me more pain.

The fact that they’re so gentle with me just adds more emotion on top of the emotional cocktail I’ve been fucking drinking.

I blow out a measured breath. Among everything, I’m just glad they’re here.

23

BANKS MORETTI

With a hard thrust, I push the flimsy, collapsible shovel into the soft earth. Hours into grave digging, sweat builds on my temple despite the frigid air tonight. A lit cigarette hangs between my lips. Embers eat the paper, and I take a quick drag, blowing smoke off to the side before continuing.

Across from me, Sulli digs the second grave, and near her, Akara rests on the ground. Forearms to his knees, he catches his breath from his shift digging. He’s on “break” since we’ve only got two shovels.

Night air is thick with death. Among spruce trees, we found a grassy clearing for the graves, and two cougars lie lifeless, bleeding into the dirt and grass beside us. I’m more used to death than I’d like to admit.

But it still knocks me back. Almost losing Akara, then Sulli, that sucker-punched me. Thinking about how close I was to the brutal loss now is like an invisible hand around my windpipe. Every so often I feel the ghost of a hand clench tighter.

Christ, I’ll take a hundred more migraines. Just don’t take them.

You hear me? I look up at the sky, then back

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