Taken (Erin Bowman)

and it gives me too much time to think about Harvey. We left him. We didn’t know if he was dead or alive or taken captive and we left without him.
    Eventually, Bo claims we should rest. “Only Bree knows how to get back,” he points out. “We should make camp for the night.”
    Taem’s dome is barely visible in the distance, and the occasional explosion or gunfire can be heard. It makes me uncomfortable, being so close.
    “What if someone’s following us?” I ask.
    “They’re not,” Bo says. “They are fighting a bigger battle right now.”
    Bo makes a fire and Emma and I sit on opposite sides, staring at each other through the flames. Bree sleeps, her head in my lap. I say nothing to Emma. I don’t even know where to begin. I want her beside me, and yet I want her far, far away, hurting as I do.
    “Gray?”
    I look down to see Bree’s eyes flickering open. They are blue again. She must have ditched her contacts at some point.
    “Hey, Bree.”
    She tries to sit up, but winces. “What happened?”
    “You got shot.”
    “I know that, stupid. What happened after I got shot?” She speaks slowly, but I can tell it’s meant to have fire in it. Her stubbornness makes me grin.
    “We got to a car. Bo drove us to safety. And Emma fixed you. We’re camping in the woods now.”
    “Emma? The Emma you never told me about? The girl you risked all our lives attempting to save?”
    “Yeah, that one.”
    She frowns. “She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”
    “Yes. But so do you.” It’s a complicated response, but an honest one.
    Bree lies there for a second, looking up at me. “Your eyes are still blue. I like them better when they’re gray.”
    “Why?” I ask, thinking of how gray is so dull, and not even a color at all.
    “They remind me of cloudy skies over Saltwater. And morning waves. That color is familiar. Comforting.”
    I fish the contacts from my eyes and flick them aside. “Better?”
    She smiles. I return my attention to the fire, admiring an especially hot patch of blue flames.
    “Gray?” Bree whispers again.
    “Yeah?”
    “Do you remember that night in the Tap Room, when I drank too much?”
    “I remember you threw up on my boots.”
    “No, not that.” She shakes her head slowly. “Before that. Do you remember what I asked you?”
    I nod. I’ve never forgotten.
    “If I asked you that again, right now, would you turn me down?”
    “No,” I tell her honestly. I’ve been fighting anything I felt toward her because of Emma—Emma, who didn’t fight a thing herself.
    Bree tries to sit again, and grimaces. She won’t give up, though; she’s far too stubborn. She locks her good arm behind my neck and pulls until she’s upright in my lap. Her face is dangerously close to mine. I’m positive Emma is staring at us, watching my every move through the fire, but I am bitter and hurt and angry. A part of me wants her to hurt, too.
    Bree leans in a little, her arms still behind my neck. “Kiss me?” she asks.
    And I do.
    As Bree’s lips meet mine, as her arms latch more tightly behind my neck, something washes over me. Guilt, maybe? Confusion? I try to stifle it, because even with it stirring in my gut, Bree tastes so good. I let it go from one kiss to many. I kiss her several times over, then her nose, her neck.
    Bree is warm. She is soft. She clings to me as though her life depends on it. I am hungry for her, but I am also hungry for revenge. And the more of it I get, the worse I feel, because I can’t pull away. I am crashing, tumbling, gathering speed and unable to stop. I don’t know how far it would have gone, the two of us—even with Emma and Bo sitting on the other side of the camp—if the celebration hadn’t started.
    There is one at first, a whiz of noise followed by a burst of blue light overhead. The second is red, a third yellow.
    “Fireworks,” Bo says.
    The battle in Taem is over. We watch the show in silence. It is beautiful, an explosion of colors against a blanket of black. And then a projection lights up the sky. It is an image, as dark and dismal as any.
    Harvey, dead.
    He is tied to the wooden pole in the public square. They’ve stripped him naked and painted a red triangle atop his chest. His head hangs toward it, as though he were trying to kiss its peak.
    The fireworks continue in the distance, covering Harvey’s projection until he fades out completely. In the midst of Harvey’s sacrifice, my revenge on Emma suddenly feels juvenile and