A Broken World

Fifty-Eight

YN

I needed to hit something.

My hands were still shaking as I stormed out of the prison and into the yard, the thick Georgia heat pressing against my skin. The sun hung high in the sky, making the sweat at the back of my neck stick to my collar, but I barely noticed. All I could think about was Merle and that damn smug look on his face.

I hated him. Hated the way his words had wormed their way under my skin. But the worst part? He wasn’t completely wrong. Daryl and I were tangled up in something messy and unspoken, and I didn’t know how to pull myself free—if I even wanted to.

I sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the knife at my belt. A few walkers still roamed the far end of the yard, slow and mindless in the sweltering heat. My body moved before my brain could catch up, my boots kicking up dust as I closed the distance.

The first one barely had time to turn before my blade buried itself in its skull. I yanked it free, shoving the body aside just as another stumbled toward me.

Good. I needed more.

My knife found its mark again and again, each kill sending a rush of heat through me. Anger. Frustration. Whatever the hell this feeling was, I let it out with every swing, every stab, every walker that hit the ground.

I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t some girl waiting to be pushed around and left behind.

I was still standing. Still fighting.

And no one—not Merle, not Daryl, not anyone—was going to break me.

Daryl

Merle’s laugh was still rattling in my ears when I stepped into the cell block, my fists clenched tight at my sides.

“She’s got some fire, that one,” he said, rubbing his jaw like maybe she’d actually hurt him. “Now I see why you’re all twisted up over her.”

I saw red.

I grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the bars, my breath coming hard and fast. “You don’t talk about her like that.”

Merle just grinned. “Touchy, touchy.”

I shoved him again, harder this time, and he let out a low chuckle. “Ain’t my fault you’re all pussy-whipped.”

I let go before I did something I’d regret, my muscles coiled so tight I thought I might snap. “Shut the hell up, Merle.”

His laughter followed me as I stalked out of the block, my pulse hammering in my ears.

I needed to find her. Now.

I found her in the yard, standing over a pile of dead walkers, her shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath. The sun caught in her hair, making it shine like fire, but it was the way she held herself—rigid, tense, like she was still ready to fight—that made something tighten in my chest.

She didn’t even look at me when I walked up, just wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “You need somethin’?” Her voice was sharp, edged with the kind of anger I knew wasn’t just about the dead things at her feet.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Saw you storm out. Figured you needed to hit somethin’.” I nodded toward the mess around her. “Guess you handled that.”

She huffed out a humorless laugh, finally turning to face me. Her eyes were wild, a storm brewing beneath the surface. “Yeah, well, it didn’t help much.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there, watching her, waiting.

After a long moment, she shook her head and let out a breath. “Your brother’s a real piece of work, you know that?”