Chapter 51

I wake to the feeling of warmth beneath me, a steady rise and fall against my cheek. It takes a second for the weight of sleep to lift, but when it does, I realise exactly where I am. I'm sprawled across Styles' chest, his arm still looped lazily around my waist. His jacket is bunched under my head like a pillow. Our legs are tangled.

His eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls rhythmically. I know he's not truly asleep, he never is. But I'm glad he's resting at least.

I shift slightly, my body stiff as I rise from the unforgiving forest floor.

"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is low, rough with sleep. Always on guard, always alert.

I glance down at him. He hasn't moved, but his eyes are cracked open now, watching me.

"I just want to wash my hair before we set off," I whisper.

 I use the word wash lightly; I don't have anything to wash it with. But it's matted and dirty from my night on the ground.

"Are you not tired?" he asks, brows furrowed.

"Best sleep I've had all week," I reply, a small smile tugging at my lips.

He smirks, stretching with a groan. "Yeah, I bet. Probably tired yourself out with all that grindi-"

"Anyway," I cut him off, heat blooming across my cheeks. "I'm just going down to the river bank, I'll only be a couple of minutes."

He raises a brow. "I'll come with you."

His tone is dry but carries a weight, like he's trying not to make a big deal out of the fact he's letting me out of arm's reach.

"I won't go far, you need to keep an eye on Jacob and Rose," I say, brushing the dirt from my thighs.

He's not convinced. So, I say what he needs to hear.

"They're the mission remember, that's the job."

He doesn't move. Just watches me for a beat, then nods once. "Fine, but if you're not back in 5 minutes, I'll be dragging Jacob and his dodgy leg down to find you."

I huff a laugh. "Alright, Dad. Chill out."

The joke lands, but the smile fades almost as soon as it forms. My mind drifts to my own father. I miss him. I hope he's safe. I hope he's making us proud. I hope he'd be proud of me.

Styles doesn't reply, but his eyes stay on me long after I turn away.

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The river is cold but it clears my head. I crouch at the edge, rinsing my arms first. Then I cup the water into my hands and soak my hair, scrubbing through the knots with my fingers. My scalp sighs with relief.

It's a small thing, but it helps. Makes me feel more human again.

The sound of a branch snapping bursts my bubble.

I freeze. Water drips from my elbows. I blink through wet lashes toward the trees, scanning.

Nothing.

But I hear it again; closer this time. A rustle, a low grunt.

Shit.

I'm unarmed. Not even a knife. Completely fucking exposed. 

Panic hits fast and sharp.

The sound gets closer and closer.

I push up on to the river bank, swinging my leg up and onto the ground. I begin to run back towards our camp.

I trip over a root and hit the ground hard, elbows scraping dirt. I let out a scream.

I scramble upright just as Styles barrels through the trees, gun raised, eyes wide and wild.

"Holton!"

He reaches me in three strides, dragging me behind him with one arm while the other stays on the trigger. "What happened?"

"I heard something," I gasp. "It was close- I thought-"

Then we both see it.

A figure lurches from the undergrowth. Dirty. Bloodied. Limping. Eyes wide with pain and confusion.

I gasp so loud it hurts.

"Benson?!"

She stumbles and collapses.

I'm at her side in seconds, knees slamming into the earth. "You're alive... thank God!"

She's barely conscious. Clothes torn, a gash across her temple, bruises everywhere. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. A tear runs down her cheek.

Styles immediately kneels beside me. "Check her pulse."

I do. It's faint, but it's steady and it's there.

"Benson, it's me," I say, cupping her face. "It's Holton. I wanted to come for you, I swear. We split up so I could have a better chance of finding you. You're with us now, we'll help you. Styles will get us out of here."

She blinks slowly, another tear rolling down her cheek.

"Come on," Styles says grimly. "Your scream just gave us away. We need to move."

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Getting Benson stable takes time we don't have. Styles cleans the worst of her wounds, wraps a pressure bandage around her ribs, and lifts her like she weighs nothing. I do my best to explain to Jacob and Rose who the ghost of a girl in front of them is.

"You okay to carry Jacob?" Stlyes asks.

I nod, grabbing the boy's arm and slinging it over my shoulder. He's weaker today, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Styles adjusts his grip on Benson, one arm under her knees, the other braced around her back. He doesn't speak. His jaw is locked, brow furrowed with focus.

We decide to walk along the side of the river for as long as possible, only going in to the water itself if it can't be avoided. We're slower now, with the added weight, but we don't stop.

I watch Styles as we walk. His grip never slips. Not once. Even with sweat rolling down his neck, even with every muscle under strain, he doesn't waver. Doesn't complain.

I worry about how defensible we are now, impaired by Styles carrying a body on his back, but I keep it to myself. Styles will already be running the numbers in his head, and there's no point in worrying Rose or Jacob unnecessarily.

We move fast through the trees. I can feel every second ticking by, every heartbeat between now and when we get these two home.

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I can't quite believe it when we reach the edge of the extraction zone.

We stop to rest before the final push, when we'll have to come out of the shadows.

One more fight.

That's us that stands between us and safety. Between us and success.

Styles kneels, laying Benson down carefully against a soft patch of moss. He checks her pulse again, adjusting the pressure bandage on her ribs.

I lower Jacob next to her, and Rose takes a seat with him; their hands interlinked.

Styles stands and walks a few steps away from the group. I follow.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks once we're out of earshot of the others.

I nod. "Are you, you know, okay?"

He looks at me like I have three heads and doesn't entertain me with a response. He can't afford not to be. He's the only person here who actually knows what he's doing, the only person keeping us alive.

"Next time you decide to go for a riverside spa, take your weapon," he jibes, changing the subject. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I scared the shit out of myself. But, noted," I say quietly. "Thanks for coming."

He meets my eyes, something unreadable passing between us. "Always."

Because for all the games, the arrogance, the relentless teasing - this is who he really is. When it counts, he's there. When it matters, he's the one carrying the weight. Every time.

He's not just the only one who knows what he's doing.

He's the only one I'd follow out of this.

Anywhere.

I swallow hard and look away.