Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Twenty Nine

The moment Minho darted through the door after the Grievers, Lyra's heart dropped. Her pulse quickened, panic flooding her system as she watched his retreating figure disappear into the Maze.

"Minho!" she gasped, her feet already moving to follow. Reckless, impulsive Minho—chasing after the Grievers alone, without a weapon, into that hell.

But before she could even take another step, a firm hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her back with enough force to stop her in her tracks.

She spun around, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and for the first time, she allowed herself to really look at him. His face was pale, streaked with dirt and blood from the fight with Gally, but his eyes—those infuriatingly steady eyes—held hers with a fierce determination.

"Let go of me!" she shouted, twisting hard in the grip, her voice filled with raw desperation. Thomas had this way of getting in the way, of pulling her back from the edge just when she was ready to leap. It infuriated her.

"You can't go after him, Lyra!" Thomas's voice was strained, almost breathless from chasing after her, but there was a calmness in it that grated on her nerves. "He's already too far. You won't catch him."

"I don't care!" Lyra twisted harder, pushing against his chest as she tried to break free. She didn't care if it hurt, didn't care if she left bruises. "Minho's out there alone! I'm not just going to stand around while—"

"Listen to me!" Thomas's voice cut through her words like a blade, sharp and certain. His grip tightened just enough to keep her from running again but not enough to hurt. "It's too late, Lyra. You won't make it in time."

Her chest heaved, anger boiling in her veins, but she stopped fighting. She glared up at him, eyes burning with unshed tears, her body still trembling from the adrenaline. "You don't get it, Thomas," she hissed. "He could die out there."

"And you could, too." His words were blunt, but there was no harshness in them. "If you go out there now, you won't save him. You'll only get yourself killed. And what good is that?"

For a second, she almost fought again. Almost pushed him away and sprinted back into the night. But as much as she hated to admit it, Thomas was right. Minho had already gotten too far into the Maze. There was no catching up now, no matter how fast she was. The Maze was too dangerous at night, too unpredictable.

Her breath hitched, and she clenched her fists at her sides, frustration coursing through her. "Damn it," she whispered under her breath, voice shaking.

Thomas loosened his grip on her arm but didn't step back. His eyes were steady, searching her face. "We need to be smart," he said, quieter now. "You need to clean up that cut. It's bad, Lyra. If it gets infected..."

She hadn't even registered the pain until now. Her face throbbed where the Griever's claw had scraped her skin. She brought a hand up to touch the wound, and a sharp sting shot through her. It wasn't deep, but the heat radiating from it was enough to remind her of how dangerous infection could be out here.

As much as she hated it, hated him, she knew Thomas was right again. They had to be rational if they were going to figure things out.

"Fine," she muttered, dropping her hand. "But you need to clean up, too." Her gaze flicked to his face, to the cut on the side of his lip, still fresh from the blow Gally had landed earlier. "Don't want you dying of infection either."

Thomas gave a small nod, the hint of a smirk ghosting across his face for a split second, though it quickly disappeared. "Fair enough," he said.

She hated the uneasy truce between them—the way they could be rational when it came down to it. It felt too cold, too distant.