Page 90 of Wings of Destruction

I’ve seen Kieran naked and outside of the guilt, there’s something else. I grab my tools and rush to the door. I should have realized.

The truth has been right there in front of me this entire time.

The private gym I’ve been using every night belongs to him. Which means I could have been caught at any time.

Watching him shower will seal my fate if anyone finds out, and my punishment may end up being worse than the mines.

Nineteen

Morgan

My stomach is weak and watery in a stark contrast to the desert dryness of my mouth. You shouldn’t have stayed.

No, of course not. Hysterical laughter rises up in my throat and with the broom underneath my arm and the dustbin clanging, I jog out of the private gym with my chore decidedly not done.

I shouldn’t do a lot of things and somehow find myself in these situations where the worst possible things happen. I hadn’t meant to stay and watch Kieran. Not to document his deficiencies or find potential weaknesses, either, but out of some weird curiosity. It’s going to get me in serious trouble one of these days.

I stand still in the hallway, the solid door at my back.

What would have happened if those brown eyes popped open and met mine?

Bad things. Very bad things.

Pulse racing, I drag the bucket over to a potted Ficus in a decorative pot styled like an old-fashioned amphora.

Sorry, plant.

The lye water goes straight in, the dirt sucking it up greedily. Without the weight of the water, I work my arms for speed and hustle toward one of the hidden staircases leading down.

Pulse racing. Breath quickening. My hand goes rigid on the bucket handle.

The sun has arced lower in the sky and lets me know in absolutely certain terms I’ve wasted hours with my nap. I slap myself on the forehead but the sense I’m lacking is somewhere out there, not close. I’m not able to hit it home. Pity.

If I had more sense, I’d stop letting myself be drawn into situations where I am left the inevitable loser. Taking a nap?

Am I fever-brained?

“Yes,” I answer out loud, glancing behind me as the last bell of the day tolls in the clocktower.

In the next breath, classroom doors open, the students pushing in a bid for escape.

Yes, I am out of my mind for so many reasons.

I take the steps two at a time and land on the bottom riser hard enough to jar my teeth. The bucket hits the stone with an awful crack.

Coughing, I race into the common area toward my bunk. Mrs. Milkin stands there, already waiting for me.

I pull up short and any excuse I might have had evaporates out of my mind.

Stray bits of brown hair spill from the confines of her bonnet and ripple with the rapid push and pull of her lungs, her chest heaving. She studies me.

“Well, Morgan?” she begins in a low voice. Her cheeks bloom with color. “There’s something you’d like to tell me. Isn’t there?”

How does she know about my nap? Does she have spies in every room?

An ominous rumble starts somewhere near my ribs and plummets until it disappears in the black pit of my stomach.

Nothing I’d like to say to her will do me a favor in today’s argument. The second I tell her the truth, it will spill out of me despite my best intentions, and she’ll shove me down a mineshaft herself.