THE FREE FALL ⇘ Bellamy Blake. [1]

| liv. THE FATHER WOUND

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CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR;

THE FATHER WOUND.

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       LIFE WAS NOT KIND. Haven had tasted its cruelty, felt it carve deep, seething wounds into her soul, yet somehow, in the midst of its onslaught . . . she stood. Not unscathed, but standing nonetheless. Life was not kind, and the air at Camp Jaha hummed with the riotous tension of impending war—another blood-soaked conflict poised to tear apart what little remained of their fragile peace. And yet, even as the storm loomed . . . the group had managed to achieve the unthinkable.

        Against all odds, they had wrestled Lincoln back from the edge of mortality, purged the Reaper drug from his veins, and saved his life. It wasn't a victory, not by any grand measure, but they had successfully fulfilled their end of Lexa's bargain. Clarke was now in negotiations, sealing the fragile truce that would, with any luck . . . finally lead them to breach Mount Weather and rescue their friends.

        It was a fragile, fickle thing, this hope.

        But it was theirs.

        Begrudgingly, Haven had refrained joining the follow-up meeting with the Commander, stepping aside to let Clarke take the lead in negotiations and reveal Dahlia's alignment as Lexa's infiltrator. The time for her recklessness had passed, and the thought of dragging her mother's name into the fray once more was enough to suffocate her. Merely speaking of Dahlia had become an unbearable burden, each utterance a leaden, bitter weight on Haven's tongue, sapping her strength.

        Additionally, Clarke had sorta, kind of, strongly hinted that Haven's presence might not be the best idea—especially given the last time they met with Lexa, Haven had daringly twisted the Commander's own blade against her.

        Haven half-believed that Lexa might have respected the move. 

        But whatever.

        In contrast, when Haven had recounted the audacious act to Bellamy, it was as if she had forced him to feel every emotion humanly possible, all at once. His eyebrows had rocketed upwards, scaling the heights of his forehead in sheer disbelief, before they dipped in a moment of recognition, because . . . of course she would. But just as swiftly, his face constricted with fear—fear for her, for the delicate balance she had nearly shattered, for the consequences that surely could have been disastrous.

Eventually, his features had softened, and swathed within his wide, brown eyes . . . a flicker of something deeper emerged.

Pride.