He touches my cheek, and I open my eyes. Emotions have a size, and this man’s anger is huge, like a force of its own. I can feel myself fraying—it’s the exhaustion, the fear, the kitten, the antiseptic. Tears roll down my cheeks.
“You want to get out,” I sob. “I know you do. This is your chance. Go.” I don’t give a fuck about my story anymore. I just want him to survive. I want him to be free.
“You’re hurt,” he pants.
“It’s just a cut. You won’t get another chance, 34!”
He won’t stop checking my head. I try to push him away—it’s like trying to push the wind away. He keeps touching me, fingers on my forehead and head like I’m an inanimate object, his to control.
“Th-they came up from the north stairwell. You can get out the other way.”
“Hurt,” he says.
“Listen to me, 34! There’s a back way out on the far side of the craft room. You know the craft room?”
He brushes the hair out of my eyes. My heart pounds. Savage Adonis.
“Go!”
He looks in the direction of the craft room, and I think he’s going for it. The wild boy, sensing freedom.
“You understand, right?”
He kneels and sweeps me up into his arms.
“No!” I cry as we bang out the door. “You can’t!”
But he can. He is. He’s tearing down the hall, down to the craft room, like I said.
Carrying me.
It’s here I realize that he’s not entirely steady. Is the adrenaline of the fight wearing off? There was a shot. Was he hit? His blue PJs have blood on them.
“Let me down,” I beg. “I’ll be fine.”
No answer. He takes another flight of stairs.
I struggle in his arms. He tightens his grip, face beautifully brutal, dark curls wild, eyes distant and feral.
We reach the emergency exit door. He kicks it open.
It falls out—face first.
It’s a cloudy morning, just past seven. The guard towers are eerily dark. Where are the guards? The spotlights are all off.
He stills, sucks in a breath. It comes to me that this is the first time he’s breathed outdoor air in months.
“You’re out now.” I push on his chest. He’s ignoring me, carrying me around to the front, to the parking lot and the gates.
I start to say something, but he seals my mouth with his hand. He’s panting, carrying me along the side of the facility.
Like being in the arms of King Kong.
We round a corner.
“Hey! Hey you!”
A few men are coming at us with military-style weaponry.