THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| xxviii. THE TIGHTROPE

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CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT;

THE TIGHTROPE.

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        TWO DAYS. Forty-eight agonizing hours had passed since Haven was brought back to camp, her unconscious form nestled within the refuge of Bellamy's cot. Hidden away from the prying eyes of those dwelling in the dropship, she remained ensconced in a cocoon of silence, her very existence suspended in a limbo between life and death.

        Only a select few were granted access to the tent: Clarke, Raven, Orion, Octavia, Jasper, Monty, Miller, and Bellamy. They rotated shifts, each taking their turn monitoring her pulse, their unwavering vigilance the only barrier preventing her from slipping away.

Bellamy was adamant about maintaining privacy, a goal that proved paramount–especially amidst the chaos that currently engulfed the rest of the camp in flames.

        Literally.

        Earlier that morning, Del had ignited a catastrophic blaze that engulfed the entirety of the meat tent. Ignoring warnings to stop fueling the fucking fire, he continued to feed the flames relentlessly, spurred by a rebellious streak against Murphy's commands. Eventually, the tent was consumed in an inferno. The once edible cured poultry and anticipated meals were now reduced to mere ashes, leaving Bellamy to face yet another crisis in need of solving.

        As much as he loathed the idea, Bellamy also understood that hunting was their only viable solution. Starvation was simply not an option if they hoped to succeed in the impending conflict. Despite the lack of retaliation from the Grounders since the bridge bombing—so far—they couldn't afford to remain idle. They had to take the risk of venturing beyond the camp's borders to ensure they were prepared for whatever lay ahead.

        Of course, that didn't mean he relished the prospect; in truth, he wanted nothing to do with any of it. Bellamy would sooner tear his own skin off than be compelled to bark orders and thrust rifles into the hands of timid teenagers. All he truly desired was to remain by Haven's bedside and await her awakening. Yet, the relentless demands of his responsibility to the camp tugged at him from a hundred different directions, ceaselessly, incessantly, every damn minute of the day.

Which is why this moment felt infinitely more meaningful. It was Bellamy's shift to monitor Haven's pulse, a responsibility that now felt imbued with an unparalleled significance. With reverent care, he knelt beside the cot, his thumb pressed firmly against her wrist, counting each heartbeat in the confines of his mind as if his own life depended on it. Though her fingers remained inert, he tenderly laid his own in her palm, a silent wish that by some fucking miracle–she'd wake up and grasp it.