The memory burns within me, a bed of live coals I swear I’ll stop walking across. I don’t want to think about Logan, about feeling soft and hopeful toward him once upon a time. Not when I’m saying good-bye because Logan couldn’t be bothered to understand how hard it would be for me to lose both my dad and my home on the same night.

Grief rises, thick and hot, trying to suffocate me. My eyes sting, and I dig my nails into the tabletop as a single sob escapes me.

I will not break down.

I will not.

I refuse to walk into Logan’s home with tear-stained eyes and trembling lips. Stifling the next sob that shakes me, I blink away the tears and clench my hands into fists. Dad would’ve returned by now if he could. I can’t hold on to false hope any longer. He isn’t coming home. Not without help.

My eyes slide toward the still-open door of the sparring room as an idea—a ridiculous, bold, almost impossible idea—takes root. Dad can’t come home without help, and the Commander shows no inclination to send a search party. But Dad doesn’t need a sanctioned search party. Not when he’s spent years training me how to handle myself in the Wasteland, smuggling me out of Baalboden so I could go with him on his shorter missions and making sure I could defend myself against any threat.

And not when Logan knows how to track.

The memory of Logan’s belief in Dad’s survival skills is a tiny sliver of comfort I grab onto with desperate strength. It pains me to admit it, but Logan is better at planning than I am. If anyone can help me—if anyone in Baalboden would want to help me—it’s Logan.

The grief subsides, sinking beneath cold, hard purpose. I walk into the sparring room, strap a leather sheath around my waist, and slide my knife into place.

I’m going to find a way over the Wall and bring Dad home. Logan can either help me, or get out of my way.

CHAPTER FOUR

LOGAN

She’s been under my roof for twelve hours. One hour was spent trying to cook and eat a meal without accidentally brushing up against each other and without engaging in conversation. Mostly because she looked shocked and lost, and I had no words that would make it better.

Two-point-five hours were spent listening to her move around the tiny loft above me while I worked on a design for a tracking device and told myself no one should have that much power over my ability to concentrate.

The other eight-point-five hours, we slept. Or she did. I hope she did. I lay awake for more hours than I care to recall listening for a telltale catch in her breathing that would tell me how deeply she must be hurting. She remained silent, and I remained mostly sleepless.

Now the morning light feels harsh against my eyes, and my brain feels incapable of even the most rudimentary exercise in logic. Twelve hours into my role as her Protector and I’m sure of one thing: Moving Rachel into my little brick-and-mortar cottage wasn’t one of my better ideas.

The small stipend I receive as Jared’s apprentice is enough to pay for a house of my own with a bit left over for tech supplies and food. I have no idea how I’m going to make it stretch to cover Rachel’s needs as well. However, considering the current state of our relationship, money is the least of my current difficulties.

I’m sitting on my patched leather couch when she climbs down from the loft, sunlight tangling in the red strands of her hair and shimmering like fire. Her face is pale and composed, at odds with the fierce glint in her eyes as she looks at everything but me.

I should say something.

Anything.

No, not just anything. She had a rough day yesterday. She probably needs words of comfort and compassion.

I should’ve invited Oliver to breakfast.

She wanders through the living room, bypassing stacks of books and running her finger along my mantel, leaving a flurry of dust in her wake.

Did I ever realize there was dust on the mantel?

The silence between us feels unwieldy. I clear my throat and try to think of the most conciliatory greeting I can compose. How are you? Did you enjoy sleeping in my tiny loft instead of the comfortable bed you’ve always known? It’s somewhat cold outside. Did you bring your heavy cloak when you packed up all your belongings to move here because I didn’t think fast enough on my feet to realize I should let you keep your home?

If those sound half as stupid coming out of my mouth as they do in my head, I can’t say them. Maybe I should just offer her some breakfast.

Her shoulders are tense as she moves away from my mantel and toward the slab of pine I use as my kitchen table. Its surface is covered with papers, inkwells, wires, and bits of copper. In the center, beside a stack of carefully drawn designs, lie the beginnings of the invention I’m hoping will solve this entire situation.

Her lips are pressed tight, dipping down in the corners.

I can say I’m sorry. She’ll hear the sincerity in my voice. I’ll say I’m sorry and then—

She reaches her hand toward the delicately spliced wires of my new invention. I leap to my feet, scattering books across the floor, and say, “Don’t touch that!”

She freezes and looks at me for the first time.

“I mean … it’s still a work in progress and it needs … Did you sleep okay? Of course not. You have your cloak, right? Because the weather is … I’m just going to make you some breakfast.”

I sound like an idiot. Being solely responsible for a girl—no, being solely responsible for Rachel—has apparently short-circuited my ability to form coherent speech. Partially because the only girl I’ve ever really talked to is Rachel, and we stopped talking two years ago. And partially because ever since she said she loved me, I’ve felt unbearably self-conscious around her.