Page 18 of I’m The Worst

I slam my plate into the sink. Metal cracks against porcelain, the sound sharp enough to make my shoulders twitch. I already know how long it would take someone to cross the clearing outside if they heard it. Twelve seconds from the tree line to the door. Maybe ten if they sprint.

The walls are peeling. Floors stained black with age. The pipes scream when you turn on the faucet. It smells like mold, damp wood, and isolation. Buried in the middle of Siberian nowhere. That’s the only thing it has going for it—it’s a bitch to get to.

When she’s strong enough, we’ll drive out. Can’t take any flights. The Nightshades own too much airspace. A jet lights up every fucking radar from here to Moscow. We’d be dead before the wheels left the ground.

So now we wait, and every day we wait increases exposure.

Every contact Savva makes is another danger. Every supply run is a risk. Every hour she doesn’t recover is another variable I didn’t plan for.

Variables get you killed.

This goddamn mission was supposed to be two weeks. Now it’s months of my life tied to a rescue mission I never should’ve taken. Dragging a half-dead girl across Eastern Europe while every instinct I have urges me to cut the problem loose.

I drag a hand over my beard.

There was a moment—gun in my hand, her pulse barely there—when I measured the angle. Base of the skull. Would be quick and quiet. No more liability.

No more exposure. No more weak link risking my life.

My finger even started to tighten.

My thumb had already eased the safety off. Instinct and Training. Years of surviving by removing the threat before it becomes a problem.

Then I remembered what she’s worth. So I lowered the gun.

She lives. For now.

If she ever becomes more danger than she’s worth, I won’t hesitate again.

I twist open a bottle of water, the plastic crinkling under my grip when a moan fills the cabin. I pause, eyes narrowing.

“I told you to stop watching that shit on my computer,” I snap, heading toward the living room.

Savva isn’t there. My laptop is closed. The room is empty.

Another sound follows. Softer this time. I pivot, moving down the hall.

Her door is cracked open. I push it with two fingers and stop short of the threshold. She isn’t under the bed. She’s on it. Her legs are curled, body tense, her hand shoved between her thighs.

“Stop,” she whimpers. “Please…stop.”

She isn’t awake. Her head jerks from side to side, breath stuttering, hips grinding without any rhythm.

“No,” she moans. “No!”

I step in, then halt again.

“AJ.”

Her breathing fractures, a sob tearing out of her chest. Grabbing the blanket on the bed, I snap it sharply over her legs.

“Wake up.”

She screams and jerks violently as she bolts upright, scrambling backward until she smacks into the headboard. Her eyes are wild, unfocused.

“Get off me! Don’t touch me— Don’t⁠—”

“You were dreaming. That’s it.”