“No.” My voice is a faint breath of air.

His fingers slide down my back. “You are incapable of being tactful to spare someone’s feelings.”

My heart sinks a little. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“I’ve spent my life as an outcast.” His voice is quiet. Steady. “I walked into stores and people started whispering. I’d enter a crowd and see parents shoo their children away from me like I’d contracted some terrible disease no one else wanted to catch. Yet all the while, those same people would smile to my face. I never knew if the friendliness I saw in someone’s eyes was real until I met you.”

“Well, those other people were obviously idiots.”

He tilts my head back and leans closer. “I always know where I stand with you. Even when you were angry with me, you never bothered trying to hide it. You are exactly who you seem to be, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

His kiss is gentle, and much too short. When he leans back, he says, “I shared what was bothering me, and it helped. Ready to do the same?”

My throat tightens, and I swallow hard. “I dream of Dad and Oliver.” And Melkin. And blood, but I can’t find the words to paint that picture. “I see them die. Over and over. Or they come to me already dead.” My voice sinks into a whisper. “Nothing feels right inside of me since I lost them. Since we lost them.”

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. “I’m sorry.” Warmth from his mouth whispers across mine as his lips brush against me. “I love you, Rachel.”

I wrap my arms around him and stretch up on my tiptoes. “I love you, too.” I kiss him until the forest seems to spin around me, and I can’t tell which of us is holding the other up.

A faint crunch, like a boot stepping on the rocky forest soil, echoes behind us. The whispery hiss of someone drawing in a ragged breath crawls across the air and raises the hair on my arms.

Chapter Twenty-Six

RACHEL

Grabbing our weapons, we turn back-to-back, and face the shadowed forest around us. I raise my knife and crouch. Forcing myself to control my breathing, I listen intently. Behind me, Logan is quiet too as we wait for the Wasteland to give up its secrets.

A scout from the army? The tracker?

Something scrapes against a tree to the left of me. I adjust my grip on my knife and get ready. If someone attacks us, we won’t see him coming before he’s almost on top of us. I’ll have only seconds to assess the threat and remove it.

Blood on my hands. Pouring from my palms. Rushing down my throat to choke me with my guilt.

I bite my cheek hard, and use the pain to banish the memory of my nightmares.

Another faint sound floats toward us. This time from the right. Either two people are out there, or someone knows how to move quickly in near silence.

Logan whispers, “When I say go, we drop to the ground and crawl beneath those bushes. Put your back to the tree.”

I can just make out the cluster of shrubs he’s talking about. They’re a good six yards away, but if we can dive underneath them and keep our backs to the huge oak tree beside them, we’ll only have to defend possible attacks from one direction. Plus, it will force whoever is out there to hunt for us, which will hopefully give us the advantage of hearing little telltale sounds that will give away his position before he attacks.

“Ready . . . set . . .”

There’s a thud, and Logan lands heavily on the ground, groaning in pain. A jagged chunk of stone the size of my palm hits the forest floor beside him.

I lunge for Logan, searching for wounds with my left hand while my right holds my knife steady. “Are you hurt?” I whisper, even though I know he must be or we’d both be crawling beneath the bushes right now.

The sticky warmth flowing from the back of his head answers my question before he can open his mouth. He’s bleeding, hit by a stone thrown by an opponent we can’t see. An opponent who could even now be coming in for the kill. We’re exposed, and every second I spend trying to figure out how this happened is another second I give our attacker to close in on us.

“What direction did it come from?” I ask against his ear.

“West,” he breathes, and struggles to roll over.

Transferring my knife to my left hand, I grab the stone, slick with Logan’s blood, and jump to my feet. Spinning to the west, I pull my arm back and throw the rock with all the strength I’ve got.

It slams into a distant tree with a resounding thud. I’m already on the ground grabbing a fistful of Logan’s tunic and pulling him toward the bushes, hoping the small distraction I caused will buy us enough time to get to safety. Logan pushes my hand away and gets to his knees.

“I can make it. You go first.” His voice is slurred.

Right. Why don’t I leave the boy I love lying injured and disoriented on the forest floor and get myself to safety instead?

“Don’t be an idiot,” I say, and reach down to tug him forward.

Someone laughs—an ugly sound of vicious amusement. A man. Behind us and to the west.

“Pay your debt,” he says in a harsh whisper that lingers in the air and sets my heart pounding with fury.

It’s the Rowansmark tracker. It has to be.

My hands shake as I let go of Logan’s tunic and grab my knife again. Cowards deserve to be punished. Especially ones who throw rocks instead of finding the backbone to fight an opponent face-to-face.

And especially ones who kill innocent boys and then leave cryptic messages about debts and atonement written in blood.