Chapter 45

Trigger Warning – Violence.

It's over in seconds.

The moments that followed had been a blur. Styles' hand had moved from the now dead rebels' mouth straight onto mine. It somewhat muffled the scream that left my body as the man's blood splattered over us, and the light left his eyes.

I knew the image of the laceration across the man's neck would stay with me for a long time, possibly forever, yet I couldn't tear my eyes away.

But what's possibly harder to stomach than that, is the person who caused it. The way Styles had swiped the blade across his throat like it was nothing had been reality slapping me in the face. And it stung like a bitch.

The man who has talked me down from some of my worst moments, the man who has been the person to keep me alive, is also the man who can take a life without so much as a flinch.

He hadn't hesitated, not for a moment.

It was instinctive.

Styles doesn't let me spiral. His hand drops from my mouth and immediately closes around my wrist instead. I barely register the pressure of his grip as he pulls me back, away from the blood, the body, the scene.

"We need to move. Now," he says under his breath, tone clipped, urgent.

Benson has already backed off a few steps, eyes wide and rifle raised, checking every corner like it'll keep her grounded.

I stumble after Styles, my feet unsteady, breath coming out in shallow gasps that feel more like whimpers. We duck into a tight corridor between two buildings, rubble crunching softly beneath our boots.

Styles crouches low, peering through the cracks of a shattered window.

"This starts the clock," he murmurs. "Someone will find the body soon. There will be a manhunt. We won't get through undetected again."

I barely hear him. I'm staring at the red on my skin. On my vest. My face. It's in my mouth. I can taste it. I want to be sick.

He sees it. Of course he does.

"Benson," he says quietly, not turning his head. "Watch the perimeter for a minute."

She looks between us both, before she nods. "Got it, sir."

When she disappears from view, it's just us.

My body starts shaking. The adrenaline drains too fast. I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow my breathing, but it's erratic. Useless.

Styles grabs hold of my arms, holding my firm, keeping me still.

"Holton," he says, voice low but firm. "Look at me."

I do. Barely. My vision stings, chest heaving.

"I-" The word fractures. "He was just- he was breathing- and then- I can't- I feel-"

"I know," is all he says as he pulls a rag out of his backpack.

"I'm going to clean this off, okay?" He lifts it toward my face slowly, like he's approaching a spooked animal.

He pours a little water out of his flask and onto the rag, and then brushes the cloth across my cheek. The water is cold, the motion gentle.

The blood comes away in streaks, and he's quiet as he does it, his brows pinched just slightly.

"I didn't think you'd... I didn't think you could..." I whisper.

He just raises an eyebrow.

"You think I talk people through panic attacks and teach combat for fun?" he murmurs, glancing up. "This is my job. All of it."

I can't answer. My throat is too tight.

"I need you here with me," he continues. "You get ten more seconds to be shocked, and then we're back on mission. That's the deal."

He runs the cloth over the edge of my jaw, slow and careful.

"This blood's not yours," he adds, quietly. "You're still alive."

I blink rapidly, tears brimming, and his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Stay that way."

Something cracks in me. Maybe from the intimacy, maybe from the horror, but I reach for his hand on instinct. I grip it like it's the only solid thing left.

He lets me.

Just for a moment.

Then his voice drops again, low and deliberate.

"You with me?"

I nod. Barely.

"I'm with you."

_____________________

Benson rejoins us, informing us that the perimeter is still clear. For now.

"We need to move," Styles mutters, glancing down the alley. "Try Clarke's comm Benson."

"Clarke, do you copy? It's Benson. We've had contact. Southside are aware. Come in." Her voice is clear over the radio.

Static.

"Clarke, this is Benson. Do you copy?" She tries again.

Nothing.

Styles snatches his own comm unit from his vest and tries himself. "Clarke. Ryder. Hanley. Anyone?"

Silence.

"They've either gone dark or they're out of range. Could be avoiding detection." He sighs through his nose, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

"Or worse," I say quietly.

"We never assume the worst. Not yet," he corrects me.

Styles looks at the darkening skyline. The sun is beginning to dip behind the broken cityscape, casting long shadows that make every ruined corner look like a trap.

"We're not getting back to base tonight," he decides. "We need to find somewhere to rest. Somewhere with cover. We need to wait for recon to give us something. There's no point in walking around aimlessly. We'll just attract attention."

"And if recon never comes?" Benson asks.

"Then we reassess in the morning," he says calmly.

We move quickly, cutting down the far end of the alley, keeping low. The quiet isn't calming. It's suffocating. Every corner feels like it's watching.

Eventually, we find it. A half-collapsed building with two intact floors and a clear view of the street. There's rubble blocking most of the entrances, and one set of stairs still standing. It's not perfect, but it's the best we'll get.

Styles signals for us to hold while he sweeps the ground level floor inside.

Benson checks her weapon, and I do the same, not trusting my own hands to be steady.

A minute later, Styles waves us in.

We're halfway up the stairwell when the sound of footsteps above makes all three of us freeze.

Not rats.

Not wind.

Human.

Styles throws his arm out, pushing Benson and me back against the wall, silently motioning for us to stay.

He moves ahead first, silent as breath.

The noise above shifts, boots crunching on debris, low muttering. Then -

A figure rounds the stairwell.

Too late.

Styles fires first, a clean shot to the chest.

Another man rushes down from behind him.

Benson doesn't hesitate. One shot to the leg, then a quick combat-style takedown.

The man crashes to the ground with a groan, and Styles doesn't waste time. He rams the end of his gun into the man's skull, and it's over.

Silence. No more movement.

Benson exhales sharply.

"Fucking hell," she mutters.

Styles looks at us both, eyes sharp.

"Secure the bodies. I need to clear the top floor," he instructs.

He doesn't offer me any reassurance this time, not even a glance. I know him enough now to know it's because he isn't reassured himself. He won't let his walls down for me, until he can let them down for himself. When the top floor is clear, he'll help me.

Until then, I need to focus on keeping the contents of my stomach inside.

Thankfully Benson deals with the bodies, while I try to make the best of our temporary living arrangements.

It's empty. Just broken furniture, peeling wallpaper, and a dusty mattress shoved into a corner. It'll have to do.

"Building is secure. We'll hold here until we hear from Clarke's team," Styles says as he descends the now bloodied stairs. He sets his rifle down against the wall. "One hour sleep each. I'll go first."

I nod, but my nerves are far from settled.

"Get some rest," Styles says, softer now, as he drops down to sit against the far wall. "You'll need it."

I sit on the edge of the mattress, blood still under my fingernails, and wonder how the hell I'm supposed to rest with ghosts still crawling through my head.