Page 36 of I’m The Worst

She whirls around. “I want some damn privacy. Is that allowed?”

“What’s allowed is you doing what keeps you alive. Stay where I can fucking see you.”

Her face tightens as she turns, bends, and drops her pants. “How’s this view, asshole?”

I ignore her. Scanning the tree line, I track for movement in the darkness. Measuring the distance from the farmhouse to the tree line and the road beyond.

Standing back up, her boots crunch the snow as she stomps toward me. “Should I pee in a cup next time? So you can watch?”

“Grow the fuck up. I’m not watching you piss.”

She fumbles with the zipper of her pants. Her hands are so damn cold, she can barely grip the small metal tag. My gaze shifts again. Tree line. Road. Window.

“I don’t like those men…”

“What?” I snap my head back at her.

“Those men… Savva’s men…”

“You’re not supposed to. They’re not your friends.”

“They scare me,” she says quietly.

“They should.” I glance down at her. “Stay away from them. You shouldn’t trust anyone.”

“I trust you. You saved me.”

She has no idea what I am. What I’ve done.

I step into her space, so close she has to tilt her chin just to keep eye contact. She’s barely 5’4”, and I tower over her by at least a foot. “Doesn’t mean a fucking thing. I could put a bullet in your head and sleep just fine.”

Her breath catches, and she backs up.

“You don’t know me. If you’re smart, you’ll fear me more than them.”

“But…you’re not like them…are you?”

A humorless breath leaves me. “I’m worse.” I’m the worst of all of them.

I turn toward the house. For a split second, I catch the look on her face—hurt, confused. The hesitant crunch of her footsteps follows me.

The farmhouse is warmer now, firelight flickering against rotting walls. Savva and his men sit around it, tearing open MREs. I grab a duffel with sleeping supplies and start down the hall. Her footsteps follow. The single bedroom is small and bare, with only a few pieces of furniture. It’s better this way. Close quarters, easier to defend.

I drop the duffel on the floor and pull out sleeping bags. She stands there uselessly, hands hanging at her sides.

“Where do I sleep?”

I ignore the question, grab wood from the hall, and toss it into the old stone fireplace. A match flares in my hand. I light the kindling, watching flames crawl along the logs.

She finally moves, unrolling a sleeping bag near the far wall.

When the fire catches fully, I turn around. Her eyes jerk away a second too late. She was staring at me.

“Go to sleep,” I order.

She slides into the bag. I pull a chair from the corner and jam it under the doorknob until the wood groans.

“I’m not going to run, Wolff.”