The World We Live In | 𝚃. 𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙾 ♤

Chapter 33

Cristine paced her cabin in tight, agitated loops, bare feet leaving damp prints across the creaky hardwood. Her wet curls dripped cool trails down the back of her shirt as she toweled them dry with rough, jerking motions. The shower's steam had failed to unwind the tightly coiled tension gripping her body. If anything, being alone with her turbulent thoughts made her angrier, the hurt churning more violently in her gut like shrapnel trapped beneath her skin.

She shot another glance towards the window, eyes instinctively seeking Troy's imposing silhouette in the inky ranch night. But the dark grounds remained still and lifeless, the cold silence a malevolent blanket smothering all but the faintest glimmers of life from a few distant cabins, tents, and RV's. The eerie quiet was a stark reminder of the world they now inhabited – a world where the dead walked and the living fought tooth and nail for survival.

Gnawing the inside of her cheek until she tasted the coppery tang of blood, Cristine wrestled against the painful reality, slowly taking root. As expected, Troy wasn't coming tonight. The anger spiked razor-sharp once more at the thought, searing along her nerve endings until she dug blunt nails into the softness of her own forearms. Anything to shock herself back from that precarious edge of emotion. Tiny crimson blooms welled against her flesh in stark crimson exclamation points as the first stinging tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

Cristine angrily swiped at the treacherous moisture before it could trace scalding paths down her cheeks. She would not cry for him. Not after the utter bullshit he had put her through with that humiliating, venom-laced showdown in the pantry. The memory of it burned in her mind, a stark reminder of how quickly things could unravel, even in this new world where they should be united against more significant threats.

A creak on the porch made Cristine's head snap up, every sense instantly sharpening as that unmistakable prickling awareness flared bright and electric along her nerve endings. She knew that sound. Knew the weight and cadence of those booted footsteps before they even reached the door.

And like a compass swinging due north, Cristine instinctively turned to face the pending storm as Troy's towering silhouette filled the doorway. Her breath stilled in her lungs as she drank in the sharp angles of his face, thrown into stark shadow and light by the flickering lantern on the table.

His militia fatigues were mottled with streaks of dried blood and grime, the all too familiar stench of death and decay rolling off him in sour waves despite the slung rifle strapped to his back. He had been culling the infected himself rather than rendezvous with her this evening. The realization stung, a reminder of the divide between them.

Onyx met stormy blue in a tense, weighted silence, wary appraisal passing between them on quicksilver currents of shared history. Her features remained an impenetrable mask, but Cristine's spine stiffened in ingrained defense as waves of anger hurt and battered her ribcage anew like physical blows.

Troy visibly hesitated under her piercing stare, shoulders squaring as if bracing himself for the confrontation. He shifted his weight, the slight scuffing sound achingly loud in the tomblike quiet between them.

When the silence became too deafening, Cristine broke it with quiet venom. "Go wash off the day. There's still hot water." The words were clipped, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood.

She pivoted away once more, teeth gritted against the scalding words of recrimination burning the back of her throat. Everything inside warned her to keep her distance to guard her heart and dignity after Troy had obliterated their trust and intimacy.

But the cabin was too small, the air too thick with smoldering resentment to breathe freely. There was nowhere to retreat, no path to escape the impending confrontation stretching like a nightmare obstacle course.