Chapter 7

The church was quiet enough to hear the faint hum of the wind outside.

Charlotte stood by the altar, rag in hand, staring at the wooden cross. She wasn't thinking about polishing it. She was thinking about the door beneath it.

Gabriel glanced over with his usual trusting calm. "I'll be back in a moment," he said, grabbing his black blazer. "Stay here."

The moment the latch clicked shut, she was moving.

Out the door, down the steps, boots slapping against the gravel street. She kept her head down and pace steady until she was sure no one was watching, then broke into a quick stride.

The first house in sight had blinds half-closed and a porch step that creaked under her weight. The door wasn't locked. Fuck yeah!

Inside smelled faintly of soap, wood polish, and something warm, familiar in a way she didn't like. She moved through the living room fast, scanning for anything sharp.

In the kitchen, a glint of steel caught her eye. A drawer slid open, and her fingers wrapped around the handle of a kitchen knife, would have to do for now.

"Looking for something?"

Her head snapped up so quickly she was sure she got whiplash from it.

Carl leaned in the doorway, one hand resting casually on the frame, his hat shadowing his expression.

Her grip tightened on the blade.

They stared for a beat. Then she bolted.

She darted past him, shoulder-checking just enough to make him stumble. The knife stayed tight in her hand as she tore down the hallway, doors flashing by.

Carl was right behind her, his footsteps fast but measured, like a hunter keeping pace, she let her mind drift for a moment whilst she ran to what he was up to for all these years, why did he have an eye bandage?

She cut left into a sitting room. The window latch stuck; she yanked, swore under her breath. His shadow filled the doorway, so she threw herself over the couch, landing hard on the other side with a wince.

"Really?" Carl's voice was dry, going up an octave in almost confusion at her seemingly stupid move, but his boots were already moving.

She grabbed the coffee table and shoved it over, turning it into a makeshift barricade, before slipping into another hallway. The adrenaline kept her fast, mind fixed on escaping this house that was frankly too hot for her liking, then the walls that surrounded Alexandria, not on him.

Carl vaulted the table and followed.

She ducked into what looked like a study, eyes scanning shelves and surfaces for another exit. There! A side window. She fumbled with the latch, got it open, one knee already on the sill—

Arms locked around her waist, yanking her backward. Her spine hit his chest, his grip oddly firm.

"Let go!" she snarled, thrashing.

"Not happening." His harsh breath was warm against her ear, his tone sharp but controlled.

For a split second, they were pressed close enough that her pulse jumped against his forearm, the air between them charged with something neither wanted to name.

She slammed her elbow back into his ribs. He grunted, loosening just enough for her to spin, knife flashing up.

Carl caught her wrist mid-swing, forcing it back toward the wall. The blade slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor with a metallic clang.

"Fuck!"

She lunged for it. He was faster, shoving her back, pinning her with one forearm across her collarbone, the other braced against the wall near her head.

They were nose to nose now, both breathing hard.

"You're not getting out of this," he snapped.

"Get off me!" she shouted, pushing against him with all the force she could muster.

Neither of them noticed the doorway until a sharp voice cut through the air.

"What the hell is going on in here?"

They both turned.

Michonne stood framed in the hall light, katana on her back, her gaze flicking between Carl's hold and Charlotte's defiant glare.

The silence that followed was heavier than the fight itself.