“Back in the Nesting House,” I say.
She snorts. “We got out alive…”
“I didn’t say I was complaining,” I say. “I like the part where you didn’t die. Big fan, actually. Would definitely do it again.”
“Wow,” she says slowly with amusement. “Did you just say you’d sign up to do this again?”
“I meant…” I start.
“No, no,” she cuts in, way too awake now. “We’re documenting this. Subject voluntarily repeats the experiment involving extreme danger,psychological compromise, and permanent body modification because Subject 001A was present. Fascinating.”
“That’s not…”
“That was basically a yes to ‘in sickness and in health’ but for fucked up trauma bonding,” she says. “Do you want a ring, Ghost? We can melt down some bullet casings, make it aesthetically pleasing for us.”
I clamp my jaw shut, feeling the heat crawl up the back of my neck that has nothing to do with the truck’s half-functional heater. “Slip of the tongue,” I say.
“Hmm, Freudian slip, huh?” Kiera continues to joke.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re transparent,” Kiera shoots back. “We’re all suffering.” But she’s smiling, one that’s a little looser at the edges. She shifts in the seat, letting her head tip toward the window, watching the trees blur by. After a minute, she says, quieter, “For the record… I’d probably re-enroll, too. It brought me to you.” The words land softly and heavily in the space between us.
“You’re concussed,” I say automatically.
“Probably,” she whispers. “Don’t tell Cam. He’d have me in a bubble quicker than the words come out.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She snorts again, then lets her eyes close. Her hand drifts to her hip, fingers resting over the S like she’s holding it in place.
The rain picks up, drumming harder on the roof. The road stretches ahead, dark and slick and winding. My side throbs in time with the wipers. Temporary occupancy, I told her—month to month. My body knows better.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Pretending to sleep gets me exactly three things: plausible deniability, a free pass on hard conversations, and a little extra time to think. I make damn good use of all three. Sterling’s truck hums under us, steady and familiar, every rattle cataloged from a dozen runs before this one. Normally, I’d be tracking each sound, every twitch of his hands on the wheel, ready to call out trouble before he even sees it. Tonight, the trouble is sitting right in the passenger seat, wearing his initials.
My fingers rest over the S on my hip, heat pulsing under the denim like it has its own heartbeat. Every time the truck hits a ripple in the road, the mark answers back. Deeper aches join in—old bruises, fresh ones, and the long invisible ones the program likes best.Re-enroll, I’d told him.It brought me to you. I hear it again in my own voice and want to bite my tongue off.Real smooth, Kiera.Ten out of ten for subtlety. The thing is…it’s true. The Nesting House, Ward C, every nightmare they stitched into us—all of it led straight to him. If that’s not the worst love letter ever written, I don’t know what is.
Outside, the trees lean in close, branches flashing through the headlights like reaching hands. The rain has thickened from an annoying drizzle into a full percussion section, drumming on the cab and blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. “You still breathing?” Sterling asks quietly.
“Regrettably,” I mumble, eyes still closed.So much for pretending to sleep.
“Good,” he chuckles. “It would complicate the drive if you stopped.”
I crack one eye open and turn my head just enough to catch his profile. The dashboard light paints him in that ghost-green glow: set jaw, focused eyes, that little line between his brows that only shows up when he’s thinking too hard and doesn’t like the answers. He looks different from the way he did this afternoon. Same face, same scars, same stupidly competent hands on the wheel—but something in the set of his shoulders has shifted. Less like a loaded weapon, more like a man who’s decided something and hasn’t figured out how to live with it yet.Join the club.“Scale of one to ten,” I say.
He glances over. “On what?”
“On how bad an idea this was,” I say, waving a vague little circle in the air that covers way too much. “Chapel. Knives. Mutual vandalism disguised as worship. The whole…thing.”
Sterling considers it quietly for a moment. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“I am.”
“Then eight,” he says. “Leaning nine.”
A pout shadows my face in mock sadness. “Ouch.”
“Ask me again if they ever find out,” he adds. “It’ll be a twelve.”