IN WHICH - The last thing that Hope Mikaelson expected when she came out of Malivore was to still be alive, the second last thing she expected was to be disowned by most of her living family, and the final last thing she expected was some ancient be...
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THIRD PERSON POV
CHAPTER 15
The sun hung high over the Greene farm, its warm light doing little to thaw the tension that gripped the people below. Merle leaned against the wooden railing of the porch, picking at a splinter in his thumb with a wicked-looking knife. Hope stood beside him, arms crossed and expression stormy as she stared at the scattered members of Rick's group bustling around the property. The camp was alive with activity, but the energy was fractured, filled with frayed nerves and wary glances.
"Tell me somethin', sunshine," Merle drawled, breaking the silence as he flicked the splinter away. "How in the hell did you manage to piss off my baby brother and the farmer with the same stroke? That's talent."
Hope didn't look at him. "Maybe it's a gift."
Merle chuckled, his grin stretching wide enough to flash his fangs. "Ain't no gift—more like a damn curse." He tilted his head toward her, the teasing edge in his voice softening. "Daryl still givin' you the cold shoulder?"
Hope's jaw tightened, and she finally glanced at him. "What do you think?"
"I think he's mad 'cause he don't know whether to fight you or kiss you." Merle's grin widened when Hope shot him a withering glare.
"Oh, shut up," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "He's mad because he doesn't understand. And because he's too damn stubborn to try to understand."
Merle let out a low whistle, feigning shock. "Stubborn Dixon? Never thought I'd see the day."
"Must run in the family," Hope shot back, her lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk.
Merle barked a laugh, smacking the porch railing. "Damn, girl. If I weren't already dead, you might've killed me with that one."
The banter eased some of the tension between them, and for a moment, they stood in comfortable silence. But the weight of their situation crept back in, unspoken but heavy in the air.
"Hershel wants us gone," Hope said finally, her voice quiet.
Merle snorted. "Yeah, no shit. Ain't exactly rollin' out the welcome mat, is he? Can't say I blame him, though. We're not exactly houseguests of the year."
Hope glanced sideways at him. "What about you? What are you gonna do when the group leaves?"
Merle's grin faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. He twirled the knife in his hand absently, his eyes fixed on the group below. "Well, that depends, don't it? You stickin' around with Farmer Greene, or you headin' off with my dumbass brother and his merry band of misfits?"
Hope hesitated, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I don't know," she admitted. "Hershel... he's not wrong to want us gone. And it's not like I have any ties to the group. I've only known them for five days."
