LEIGH
Pain had a way of making everything sharper.
Every breath pulled at the lash marks on my back, my wrists were still raw from the rope, my cheek felt like it had its own heartbeat at this point — but I was upright. I was standing. That counted for something.
What didn't count for anything was this man still being in my kitchen.
Draven. That was his name apparently. The Prez. The big dog. The reason every single person on this compound had dropped to their knees in the dirt two days ago like God himself had shown up in pig blood. I'd looked at him then and recognized him — the man from the road, the one I'd siphoned and dragged through the compound like a pack mule — and I'd filed that information away under things I would deal with later.
Later was now apparently.
He was crouche
