RAINE'
The room felt too quiet after Cole left and the Doc went out for a drag. Every creak of the floorboards made me reach for the gun under my pillow. My side burned like someone had poured gasoline on it and lit a match, but the pain kept me sharp and waiting.
Isla sat in the chair by the window, cleaning her knife with slow, methodical strokes. The injured woman—I later found out her name was Maria—dozed fitfully in the other bed. We had done what we set out to do. Most of the women were free. But freedom in our world was a very fragile, bloody thing.
“You should rest,” Isla said cooly without looking up. “You lost a lot of blood.”
“I’m fine.” I said sharply, the lie tasted bitter on my lips. I was far from being fine. My father had shot me. The man who used to carry me on his
