A World Together

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Logan P.O.V

Broken. That's what Stella is. Whatever those goddamn bandits did to her, it's left her like an empty shell. That room was a bloodbath. I don't want to think about what happened in there. It takes Stella a few moments to reply when I speak to her – if she even does reply – and even then it's only in mutters. And her eyes. . .

They're blank. The gaping hole in my chest only grew when they looked up at me. I can't even begin to imagine what those scum must have done to her. When she went into the hotel room she came back out with a gun, and there was nothing I wanted more – nothing I still want more – than to take that gun and put a bullet in every single one of them that are left. Not in their heads or hearts, but in their limbs first. I want them to suffer, more than they've made her suffer.

But like a determined china doll that's been shoved from its shelf and shattered into pieces, I can see that she's making an effort to glue herself back together. Color has returned to her cheeks and she's not as skittish as when we found her, at least that's something. I risk a glance at her in the passenger seat. She's been quiet for awhile and it only reminds me of how talkative she was when we were first in the Jeep together. I decide not to try and force her and instead focus on following the bus.

I managed to get one conversation out of her though, where she revealed that she's still adamant on going to the coast to find her friend. And after everything that's happened I'm not willing to let her go alone. I haven't told Rocket or Joey yet, there was no time during our hasty retreat of the hotel, but I think Rocket suspected something when I insisted on taking the Jeep rather than getting back on the bus.

Stella shifts in her seat and my eyes dart to her instinctively, as if with every small move I expect her to disappear or break. There are so many questions I want to ask her. Why did she leave? What did they do to her? Does she even want me going to the coast with her? But I know now is not the right time to ask them. She stirs again in her seat and I find myself watching her from the corner of my eye.

"Just get it over with," she says, turning to look at me.

"What?" I ask.

She sighs. "I know what you're thinking, so just say it and get it over with."

Hesitation snags my voice and I find myself staring down the road at the back of the bus for a long while before deciding to spit it out.

"Why did you leave, Stella?" The words come out harder than intended, accusing, and she turns to look out the passenger window. "You didn't even say goodbye."

Her shoulders lift in a weak shrug. "I didn't want you coming with me."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because," another shrug, "I don't know . . . I just didn't want you risking your life for me when you could go to Canada with everyone else. I still don't."

This answer isn't one I was expecting, and it shoves me into silence. It's the genuine tone she's used that has thrown me off guard because I'm so used to her lying and manipulating. Or maybe it just surprises me because I didn't think she cared about me at all before now, and the realization that she does makes my response an easy one.