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CHAPTER 1
OLIVE
“Ouch!”
Fire dances up above my heel as I stumble, the sickeningcrunchof glass sounding under my feet as I realize in horror what just happened.
Leaning against the ruined wall, I lift my leg and wince.
An amber piece of a beer bottle sticks out from the top of my sock, just missing the protection of my sneaker. A red bloom spreads around the contact point.
I cut my fucking foot.
“Shit!” I hiss, gritting my teeth, willing myself to be quiet. With every movement, the glass splinter sinks deeper as I hop to my pile of blankets on the cracked floor, dumping the stolen loot. The bags of chips and protein bars fall to the ground, and I collapse next to them, tears filling my eyes.
Don’t scream.
Blood drips from my injury, the shard obscenely sticking out from my foot.
Carefully, my fingers wrap around the jagged edge, ensuring I have a tight grip on the glass.
Careful. Get it out in one piece.
The sight of my blood makes me queasy, so I turn my head away as I tug, pain exploding in my brain as the motion exacerbates the wound.
But one agonizing moment later and it’s out of my foot. I place the offending piece of glass on the dirty windowsill next to my blankets, blood dripping from my fingers.
My skin still burns, but the awful sensation of a glass splinter no longer exists.
Now, it’s just an ugly cut.
One that I need to get under control soon.
Grabbing a washcloth from my backpack, I press it against the cut, biting my lip to keep from whimpering. Using one of my water bottles, I wet the rag and clean the injury the best I can, applying pressure until the bleeding stops.
Ithurts.
I’ll have to make another run to the gas station soon. I was hoping to postpone it as long as possible, but I need to find bandages and something to clean the cut with.
But there’s also the matter of the ruined rag, soaked crimson with my scent.
The city is already on alert for any Omega not withinEden.
And if they find me…
No. It’s not an option.
I grab the small bottle of alcohol sanitizer off the cracked countertop and pour a few drops on the rag before balling it up and shoving it in one of the cabinet drawers.
As awful as the abandoned studio apartment is, it’s great for storage. The furniture is gone, so all that’s left are ruined laminate floors, crumbling off-white walls, and light wood cabinets where the kitchen used to be.
Back when Los Angeles was still normal, this place likely belonged to a poor college student, struggling to get by while living in one of the most prosperous cities in the world.
Now, it’s where I hide from the world.
I take inventory of my belongings. My water bottles are in the powerless refrigerator, my limited clothes are in my duffel bag, and my food for the next week sits on my pile of blankets.
And the most important items—my suppressants—are tucked away in a small hole in the wall.
