𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐖𝐍 | the 100

40 | Second Chances

"You're hurt."

‧ ✩ ｡ ✭ ° ☆ ･ _______ ･ ☆ ° ✭ ｡ ✩ ‧

The dagger nearly slips from Amber's grip. Murphy shouldn't be here, yet his eyes stare back into hers, patiently silent even as his face twists into a pained grimace. She's the source of his pain, she realizes. But her heart hammers louder than any rational thought and she keeps him pinned against the wall anyway, unwilling to lose the faint sense of control she's gained of the situation.

"What's wrong with you?" she hisses.

He raises his hands in surrender and wheezes out a laugh. "At the moment? A hole in my stomach."

Glancing down, she sees the faint patch of red on his shirt from the dagger in her hand. Her heart drops before she can catch it. All resolve forgotten, she moves her elbow from his throat to lift the hem of his shirt and reveal a shallow cut just under his lower rib. If she hadn't stopped in time, he'd be dead now, but the dagger didn't go much deeper than the skin. She collects a bundle of his shirt's fabric and presses against the wound to prevent more blood.

"You- You'll live." Her voice is tight, but she pushes relief aside and presses her arm back against his chest, dagger still in hand. "New question—why are you here?"

He only seems amused by her hardened exterior and says with a faint smirk, "I saw you sneak away. Had to make sure the damsel didn't need rescuing."

"Mhm, right, because I've always been so safe around you." She tells herself to be satisfied with the flash of hurt that crosses his face. He's stuck to her for days like a sticky plaster that's too small to heal anything and if he won't fall away on his own, she'll have to rip him off herself.

Pulse finally at a steady pace, she releases him from her grip, steps back, and slides the knife back into her boot. With its familiar press against her leg, she takes a breath to collect herself and slowly says, "Everything's fine, so you can put your poor conscience at ease."

Something tugs at Murphy's pressed lips while he leans back to glance over his wound and adjust his shirt, but when he looks back at her to say something, his expression shifts. Alarm sweeps over his face. Amber doesn't have time to worry about what's wrong, he's closed the distance between them in two giant steps and grabs her collar. She jerks away, but not before he's managed to pull her jacket off one shoulder.

"Stop," she exclaims, stumbling back as she wraps the jacket tighter around herself. He makes no more move toward her, but she watches him with razor focus. "What's wrong with you now? And don't make a stupid joke this time, asshole."

"You're hurt," he says. The tone is firm.

"What?" Her eyes flicker down. A patchwork of ugly cuts run across her collarbones and chest. Some are a raw red, others crusted with scabs, but they're nothing compared to the ones still bad enough to be bandaged on her arms.

Idiot. She shouldn't have opened her jacket when she ran outside earlier, she's done too good of a job at keeping her wounds hidden for Murphy to come along and ruin everything. She pulls the zipper of her jacket closed and looks back at him.

"What happened?" he insists, clearly struggling to keep his horror out of his tone.

She shrugs, but an oncoming panic frays the edges of her mind when she can't find the words she's supposed to give him. What lie could possibly explain away the scars without him digging into it with further questions? She can't focus with the weight of his gaze.