Chapter 49

A.N - Long and spicy if I do say so myself. Take it as my apology for making you all wait so long for chapters :)

I can hear my own ragged breath echoing against the cracked plaster walls. My legs burn with every step, my hands slick with sweat and gunpowder, and there's blood drying in the creases of my palms. Not all of it mine.

We burst onto the landing quickly, presuming it clear by the presence of Clarke and the team.

While I crouch down and try to calm my breathing, Styles immediately snaps into his leadership role, doing a quick head count, gaze sharp even through the gloom.

That's when my attention is drawn to the hostages for the first time. There's three of them. Two woman and a boy, no older than sixteen. He's slumped in the corner with blood matting his shirt, breathing shallow, clearly injured and in pain. What the fuck is happening to humanity?

"We can't carry everyone," I hear Clarke saying, keeping is voice low. "That one's barely keeping it together." He nods to one of the hostages who is sobbing uncontrollably. "And Hanley's leg-"

"He's not walking out of here," Ryder mutters.

I look over as Styles is tying a strip of torn cloth around Hanley's thigh, hands slick with blood, expression tight. I wonder how any of us ended up here.

"We'll make a stretcher," Styles says, calm but commanding. "Use the table. Strip it down."

The boys begin to follow his orders, working together in both unison and silence.

"What about Benson?" I finally force out, voice cracking.

Everyone stills.

"She could be alive," I add. "She was with us five minutes ago. She was just behind-"

"We were watching you all from up here," Clarke interrupts me. "The last we saw her, she was pinned down near the building entrance, but we had some uninvited guests to take care of before we could confirm what happened."

"So, there's a chance?" I push, addressing the room, but only looking at one person. The one person I know will understand.

"She got separated. It happens," Clarke snaps. "We've got two wounded, three civilians, and no back up. We don't have time to-"

"We're not leaving her," I protest, louder now, sounding more certain than I feel.

"She might already be dead." Clarke snaps back, but still, I don't take my eyes off of Styles. I know he'll fucking kill me for this, but I have to try.

"Holton," Styles says, and it's the first time he's spoken my name in this tone since the training days. Quiet. Level. The kind of voice that doesn't rise because it doesn't have to. "She might be alive. But we can't go looking and we sure as fuck can't stay here. They're just waiting for us to step foot out of this room. The longer we wait, the more people who want to kill you."

I meet his eyes, and I see what he won't say aloud. He wants to find Benson too. But he's choosing the ones in front of him first. Choosing the mission. Choosing the numbers.

"I'm not going to leave her behind unless I've seen a body," I begin. "Please." I plead, staring into his soul.

Styles exhales through his nose, and for a minute, I think I have him.

"No." He doesn't look at me when he says it. Just stares at the floor, jaw clenched.

"Styles, no, please!-"I cry out.

"I'm not arguing," he cuts me off sternly. I look at him, betrayal strewn across my face and I know he feels the pain the same way I do.

But this is a stark reminder, I'm not the priority.

He's always going to choose the job.

__________________

"We've got two routes," Ryder says, as he finishes securing Hanley on the stretcher. "One of the hostages knows the back paths, it's old tunnels and service access points. Says they're risky but they'll cut our journey in half."

What's the catch?" Styles asks, already sceptical.

"Exits come out further west, closer to where we know rebels have been regrouping. Risk of ambush. The tunnels are also unstable," Ryder explains.

"And the other?" Styles asks, clearly unconvinced.

"The river," Clarke says. "Follow the bank downstream. Slower, but less patrolled. It's the route some of them used to smuggle supplies early on."

I looks toward the injured boy, Jacob, and who I now know to be his mother, Rose. Every time I look at him, he looks weaker. He needs a stretcher just as much as Hanley.

"The tunnels are faster," Styles says.

"No," I say, cutting him off. "We can't drag him through the tunnels. He won't make it. His leg won't take the uneven ground, and Hanley's isn't much better."

"They'll have to manage," Clarke interjects.

I wasn't talking to you, dick.

"He's a kid," I say turning to face him sharply. "You really think he'll survive if that leg gives out in the middle of some unstable tunnel?"

Silence falls over us for a moment.

"There's no perfect choice," Styles says gently.

He drags a hand through his hair, jaw working. His eyes flick to me, then to the mother gripping her son's hand.

I give him the biggest puppy dog eyes I can muster.

"Damn it," he mutters. Then, reluctantly, "Fine. Holton and I will take the kid and his mum. River path. Clarke and Ryder take Hanley through the tunnels on the stretcher, with the Jenna following behind."

Jenna, the remaining hostage, can't stop crying long enough to form any kind of opinion on her fate.

The argument settles like fog over the broken ground. No one's truly happy, but we're going to be moving and that's what matters.

Clarke lays out the map on the blood-stained floor.

"Tunnels come out here," he points. "River meets with this service road. If we make it there, we'll wait."

"Fine," Styles agrees.

"Not forever though. If there's no sign of you, we'll take the extraction," Clarke says threateningly. I swear the fucker is smiling at the thought. He would love for us to get left behind, just like he wants to do to Benson.

________________________________

I adjust Jacob's arm over my shoulders. The boy is barely older than me, gaunt and shaky, his blood drying in rusted streaks down his temple. Rose is beside him, silent but alert, her hand on her son's back like she can hold him together by will alone.

Styles had argued it should be him to carry the boy, but I reasoned he was much better placed on lookout and gun fire. I could carry the weight; Styles had trained me up for it after all.

Styles is a shadow at my side, scanning constantly. Every crunch beneath our boots, every bird disturbed in the trees, has his shoulders tight.

We had all climbed down a blown-out lift shaft to avoid detection on our way out of the building. Getting Hanley and Jacob down had not been easy, but it saved us yet another gun fight. The longer it takes Southside to notice we're gone the better. We can get a head start on getting the fuck out of here.

Once we were safely out of the building, we had embarked on our separate ways.

The water of our route glints ahead, dark, cold, and slow-moving, more a murky canal than a river. It winds along the edge of the territory, obscured in places by low-hanging branches and crumbling stone structures. One of the hostages had mentioned it earlier, and called it "the smuggler's path."

I had pictured something grander.

It's barely wide enough for two people side by side.

I glance at Styles. "Still time to change your mind."

"Nope," he mutters. "You convinced me, remember?"

I can't tell whether he's tensed or annoyed me. It's probably both.

We step into the water one at a time. It's a physical shock, biting through fabric and muscle to the bone.

Simply, it's fucking freezing.

The boy groans as I shift his weight; Styles steadies us both with a hand on my back. The heat that shoots through me from the touch, enough to fight off the chill for a moment.

The current isn't strong, but the sludge underfoot makes movement unpredictable. Every step is effort.

Styles offers a hand to Rose, before joining us and fully submerging in the water.

It feels wrong to look at him in a moment like this, to admire him. But the way his t-shirt clings to him, the way beads of water run down his cheek. The man is beautiful.

We begin to trudge though the water, keeping as low as possible.

Apart from the temperature, it's not too bad at first.

But after a while, remaining hunched under the water and bearing the weight of Jacob on my back, it starts to become a little more torturous.

The silence becomes oppressive.

As the river narrows, we begin to move single file. Styles is at the back, taking regular checks over his shoulder.

At one point, a branch breaks somewhere behind us and I swear I stop breathing. Styles raises his weapon.

But nothing follows.

Still, the tension doesn't drain. Not fully.

"Could be scouting," Styles murmurs once we're moving again. "If the other group drew attention..."

"Then they might've led them away," I say, trying to ease my own anxiety, and spare the dread of the civilians beside us.

"Or straight to them," Styles replies stoically, keeping everyone in the land of reality.

I just nod. That's the truth of it. We chose to divide. All we can do now is keep going.

____________________________

I'm not sure how long we've been walking when Rose stumbles.

I turn to catch her, but Styles is already there, easing her upright, speaking quietly, a rare gentleness in his face.

"She's okay," he says, looking at me, already expecting my worry. "Just cold. We'll make camp soon."

"Camp?" I whisper, confused. "You want to stop?"

"Yeah, in five minutes," he replies. "We'll never make the crossing if they collapse from exhaustion."

"What about the others?" I ask panicked.

"What about them?" he responds nonchalantly.

"What if they don't stop. You heard Clarke, they won't wait on us forever," I explain.

"The state that Hanley's in, they'll need to stop regularly to treat him anyway. Plus," he lowers his voice, "Jenna is hysterical, she'll be fucked. It's getting dark soon and nobody's of any use when they can't think straight. We're not getting 12 hours of beauty sleep Holton, just enough rest to get us where we need to be."

I don't argue. How can I when he's just so fucking reassuring? Plus, I feel it in my own legs. The tremor, the ache in my calves and hips, the burn in my thighs. He probably noticed my pain before I did.

The boy is nearly out cold on my shoulder. I think I've been carrying him through the water for over two hours now. thought adrenaline would fuel me. Turns out, it burns out fast in open water.

We make it to a bank, furnished with reeds and stone and thick moss. Styles helps Rose up, then the boy.

I ungracefully clamber out, immediately kneeling in the muck, legs shaking, arms screaming.

"Here," Styles says, handing me a ration bar. "You've got five minutes to feel sorry for yourself, then get out of the fucking dirt."

I smile, just a little. So does he.

We sit in silence for a moment. Styles scouts out the area, checking for landmines, lurking rebels, or anything which can help us. 

Meanwhile, I'm sat on the ground watching the boy's chest rise and fall. He's out cold, but stable, just exhausted. That's something. Rose has fallen asleep next to him.

When Styles returns, he sinks down beside me, his back resting against a crooked tree root half-sunk in moss. We've moved away from the mother and son pair to give them peace.

His shirt is plastered to his chest, waterlogged and clinging, and I can see his pulse in his throat, fast but steady.

I lean back against the same root, a few inches between us. My body screams for stillness, but the chill in my spine is louder. Wet clothes, falling temperatures, fatigue. We'll be useless come dawn if we don't keep warm.

"Temperature's dropping," Styles says quietly. "We'll need to make sure we don't get hypothermia."

I nod eagerly, the chill burning my bones.

"How do we do that?" I ask.

He pauses for a minute, staring at me. He looks... nervous?

"We need to get out of these clothes for a start," he says, voice low.

"But we don't have a spare change?" I ask confused. He pauses again.

"I know," he replies, lips pressed together in a small, sympathetic smile.

"Oh," is all I can reply.

"Obviously you don't have to, and I can sleep in this if it would make you more comfortable," he begins to backtrack.

"No, no, don't be silly, I don't want you to get sick." 

Although right now it's me who feels sick. I spent the entire training camp, getting changed in front of the others, and Styles was right. After a while, the adrenaline of it wears off. It becomes something you just do. But with him, it's different. I suppose he's already seen me in that way before, but this is different. It's more intimate, vulnerable.

"I'll turn around," he says, already shifting his body away from me, giving me the illusion of privacy in a forest that feels too open, too cold.

I peel the soaked fabric off my skin with shaking hands. My shirt clings to me. When I finally manage to pull it over my head, the rush of cold air against my bare skin makes my breath catch in my throat.

I glance at Styles. True to his word, he's facing away, fiddling with a twig.

I wring out what I can, hang it on a low branch in the hope that a miracle might dry it, and lower myself back down beside him, wrapping my arms around my knees.

My sports bra is still soaked, but at least it's something. My shorts feel like ice against my skin. I can't stop shivering.

"You alright?" he asks without looking.

"I think so," I reply.

"Okay," he mumbles, and begins to do the same, still facing away from me.

In this moment I realise, I'm no better than a man. In fact, I'm worse than a man, because he didn't actually look. I however, can't tear my eyes away from his tanned and toned back as he lifts his shirt over his head.

His muscles ripple with the motion. His broad shoulders taper down to that narrow waist I've tried not to think about since day one. His skin is marked with scratches from the riverbed, mud streaking down the curve of his spine.

He tosses the shirt onto a rock and pauses, fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers.

I know I need to look away. I should. I know I should.

Instead, I sit there, unmoving, unblinking, my breath caught in my throat as he pushes them down.

He lowers himself beside me again, the heat of him immediately noticeable, startling against my frozen skin. Neither of us speaks for a moment, the silence thick with something unspoken.

He lowers himself down so he's more horizontal, his chest at a forty-five-degree angle.

"Lie," he says gently, tapping his chest. "We need to share body heat."

I hesitate, glancing over at Rose and Jacob. They're huddled together under the emergency blanket, dead to the world. I envy their oblivion.

I lower myself beside him, careful to avoid touching at first. But the moment I settle my head on his chest, a tremor racks through me that I can't hide.

He turns his head, watching me. "Relax," he says, softer than I've ever heard from him. "You need to get closer. It's not about comfort, it's survival."

I nod, almost too fast, and edge closer. He shifts to meet me, one arm curling behind my shoulders, the other around my waist, drawing me in tight.

My cheek finds his chest. Warm, despite everything. His skin is firm and smooth beneath me, the steady thrum of his heartbeat oddly comforting.

As heat starts to spread through me, I decide that warmth is worth more than my pride. I rest my hand on his abs, landing comfortably.

And then I feel it. His breath hitch. The slight tension in his body that wasn't there before. A muscle flexes beneath my hand.

I don't move. Not right away.

He's trying not to react.

But his body is betraying him.

The tension that's coiled around us both all these weeks. The subtle games, the glances, the almosts. Everything starts to stretch tighter now, pulled taut by the proximity, by the heat blooming low in my stomach.

I shift, slightly, deliberately. The movement presses my hip against his.

His grip tightens by a fraction. I hear the inhale.

It would be easy to pretend I don't notice. That I'm just adjusting for comfort. But I don't want to pretend. Not anymore.

I shift again, slower this time, and that's when I feel it. Hard, unmistakable, pressing against my hip through the thin layer of his shorts.

I freeze.

He does too.

For a second, neither of us breathes. Then he shifts slightly, angling his hips back like that might somehow disguise it. It doesn't. If anything, it just makes it more obvious.

A laugh bubbles up in my throat. I bite my lip to keep it in, but it slips out anyway. A quiet giggle that breaks the tension, even as it deepens it.

"Seriously?" I tease, my voice barely above a whisper. "Now?"

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. "Don't fucking start," he mutters, voice low and strained. "I can't help it. This is the first time I've stopped moving in twelve hours, and you're literally on top of me."

I try to stifle another laugh, but it's useless now. "I mean, of all the times..."

"I know," he growls under his breath, exasperated. "I'm not proud of it. Just... don't make it worse."

"Hey, I haven't done anything," I laugh. "It's not my fault you're acting like a twelve-year-old at the school disco when his crush walks past," I tease, taking full advantage of this rare moment of vulnerability from him.

His eyes flick down to me. 

"Don't forget your rank sweetheart, watch your mouth," he chides.

Though his words are stern, his eyes tell a different story, and all of a sudden this is the most alive I've felt in days.

I grin into his chest, cocky now, emboldened by his reaction.

"I thought you soldiers were supposed to be disciplined," I murmur, fingers brushing lightly across the waistband of his shorts. "mm, guess not."

I'm pushing my luck now, and I know it, but it's just too damn tempting.

He laughs, low and warm in my ear.

"You're the one grinding on my thigh like you've forgotten we're behind enemy lines," he murmurs.

My jaw drops open.

"I am not. I'm trying to stay warm thank you very much, like you said," I scoff in response.

"You're trying to get off," he remarks.

I suck in a breath at the bluntness, but his tone doesn't waver. It's calm, cocky, completely unbothered by the reality.

"You're enjoying this," I bat back.

His lips twitch, just slightly. "You think?"

"You're not even trying to hide it," I respond.

"And you're not even trying to move." His voice is low and deliberate now, the rhythm slower, as if he's reasserting every ounce of control with the roll of each word. "Which makes you just as bad as me."

"And if I am as bad as you, so what?" I ask boldly.

"You let this happen," he says, hand sliding bold and certain up the back of my thigh, fingers splaying wide, possessive. "You start this, Holton, and I will finish it."

And then he shifts again, dragging me forward, guiding me exactly where he wants me. I feel him fully now, hard and hot even through soaked layers, and it steals the air from my lungs.

His grip tightens. "You gonna ride this out or are you gonna keep pretending you don't want it?"