My brain struggles to register that it's Enoch in front of me because all I can see is red. I'm trembling as I hold up the gun. I'm about to kill my tenth person.

"Aurora, put down the gun," Danielle orders. I should obey her. She's the boss and I don't want to kill Enoch. But I don't put the gun down.

"Aurora, we're okay now," Blake says, placing one hand on the gun. "The cadets are here. You don't have to hurt anyone else."

"Red," is all I can say.

"It wasn't my best idea to wear red today, no," Enoch jokes, even though he's frozen solid with his arms up and distress all over his face.

No one knows what to do. I don't even know what to do. I just can't put the gun down. I can't do it.

Until I'm being suffocated and the gun drops from my arms and my hands fly to get the cloth away from my face but whoever is drowning me is too strong and everything is getting darker and darker... and darker... and... dark.

*****

I've been awake for some time but it's only now that I feel like I've been brought back to life. I'm in the living room, sat up on the sofa and staring at the flames that dance and flicker in the fireplace, allowing them to burn into my eyes. Once again, I'm covered in blood, my dress is in tatters, but this time I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I'm not really feeling anything.

The door has been locked and I've been left alone. It was like this when I woke up and has been like this for... as long as I've been awake. I'm not sure why they've done this, but I've found it's been nice to be alone. There's no one asking me questions about what happened or why I did this or why I didn't do that. There's no one shouting at me and treating me like I've failed and telling me I don't belong here. I don't have to explain anything to anyone and I don't need to relive everything that happened today. I can just sit, and think, and breathe, and feel grateful that we all made it out alive, and I didn't end up killing Enoch.

I only killed nine people. Nine people who were here to kill us. Who knows what might've happened if I wasn't there? I should feel proud of myself, but I don't feel like myself at all. Killing people is something I've never wanted to do. But now it's something I've done, and I don't know how to cope.

There's a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I drop one side of it to inspect where the bullet had grazed my arm, to see that a fresh gauze has been put in place to stop the bleeding. My guess is that if the red cadet had shot one centimetre to the left, I would've lost my arm. I'm lucky.

A shudder travels right through me. Even with the fire going and the blanket, the room feels cold. I pick myself up from the sofa to sit on the floor, closer to the flames. My skin burns but it feels nice. It's not burning in the way that my arm did when I was shot. It feels more like a sunburn. It reminds me of summers with my father and brothers and the warm days I've spent here. It reminds me of happier times.

I hear the quiet opening and closing of the living room door, though I don't turn around to see who has finally joined me. I don't need to.

He takes a seat in the armchair and doesn't say anything for a while. In some ways it still feels like I'm sat with only my thoughts to keep me company, but the longer he stays here, the less I feel that way.

I eventually turn around to look at Blake who is watching me. "Still think I don't belong here?"

I hear his sigh as he shifts in his seat. He can never sit still. "You've made a point, I'll give you that."

I shake my head, looking back at the fire. "You think I did all that to make a point?"

"No," he says, surprising me. "You did it to protect us. To help us. Chelsea and Posie could've been dead if it weren't for you. Chelsea's been preaching it since it all happened."

"How long ago was it?" I ask.

"About five hours," he tells me. "Jayden might've given you too much chloroform."

My head whips around to look at him again. "Jayden knocked me out?"

Blake shrugs, sinking into the armchair. "Someone had to. You were about to kill Enoch, and we all know what you'll be feeling right now. It was for the best, otherwise you would've caused either yourself or someone else harm."

I hug my knees to my chest. "I wasn't going to kill Enoch."

"You were holding a gun up to his head and you had that crazed, murderous look in your eyes. Believe me, you might have done it."

"I-" I start, but I know it's no use. I'm glad that they knocked me out, otherwise who knows what could've happened. Yes, I feel awful about what I did to those nine people, but if I had killed Enoch- kind, funny, lovely Enoch- I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine," Blake says. "Barely even shaken up. Plus, he's probably the last person to ever stay pissed at someone, least of all, you."

"Is Danielle mad?" I ask.

"Nope. She's worshipping the ground you walk upon, as always." Blake shifts again, getting comfortable. "She knows what you're going through. That's why she had you locked in here. It's always easier to think everything you need to think and feel everything you need to feel by yourself instead of bottling it up until you can't handle it anymore. I shouldn't even really be here."

I nod in understanding. I remember what Danielle had said that day on her balcony, when she told me about when she had killed her first people. She told me that she was awake for days, she didn't want to eat and she didn't feel like she deserved to get up every morning. Is that really what I've got to look forward to?

"Why are you here, then?" I ask. I fully turn my body to sit facing him.

He inspects me for an entire sixty seconds and moves yet again so he's man-spreading. "I'm making sure that you haven't set fire to yourself yet."

I give him a teasing smile. "Were you worried about me?"

He rolls his eyes. "Maybe I just didn't want another body to clean up? You gave us plenty of them already."

"Charming."

"By the way," he says. "Did you slit one of their throats?"

I shrug, sinking myself further into the blanket. "Maybe."

"We checked your gun, you still had three bullets left in the magazine. Why didn't you just shoot him?"

I shrug again. He waits for a moment before realising I have no answer to that. "Well, you beat my record of the day. I only got six of them. Even got this bad boy as a 'fuck you' gift from one of them." He rolls up the right leg of his trousers to show that it's wrapped in a gauze similar to the one on my arm. "Fucker played dead and stabbed me."

I stare at it for a moment. "Does it hurt?"

"Like a bitch," he admits, covering it back up. "But I've had worse."

"How much worse?"

He visibly hesitates, before raising the sleeve of the jumper he's wearing and leaning forward in his seat. I scoot closer to him and inspect his tattooed forearm, the skin damaged and rough underneath the ink. I subconsciously raise my hand to brush my fingers ever-so-gently over the scars, as if my touch would be like squeezing a lemon into a fresh wound, before my hand drops again.

"I was seventeen," he tells me, audibly swallowing. My age. "I was caught in a raid, but instead of killing me on the spot, they decided to... torture me. They water-boarded me, before spilling gasoline on my skin and setting my arm alight. It was in flames in seconds, and if the Thieves hadn't burst through the door and saved me, I would've been burnt alive."

The only way I could come close to imaging how painful that would be is by remembering the pain of being shot and multiplying it by a thousand. I've barely been through anything compared to these people. What I've been through must sound like child's play to them.

"Don't cry," he says, covering his arm. I hadn't even realised that a few tears had slipped from my eyes. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

I wipe them away quickly. "That's why I'm crying."

We laugh and I rest my head against his leg, and before I can think a coherent thought, he's helping me climb onto his lap. My back is against the arm of the chair with my legs slung over his and it feels like a hundred tiny butterflies have landed on me as the skin of his hand brushes against my bare leg. How someone so strong and powerful and intimidating could have such a tender touch, I'll never know.

"This is new," I say, as if my heart isn't thundering against my chest. All these palpitations of today are going to cause me some problems.

Blake hums in agreement, tracing circles into my skin almost absent mindedly. He looks happy now. Genuinely happy. He glances down at my injured arm. "We might have matching scars now. You could get a tattoo like mine."

I chuckle, smoothing a finger over it. "Don't tempt me."

He raises his eyebrows. "You would?"

"Well, I've dyed my hair. I'm basically going off the rails by now," I joke.

"Damn, girl, you're joining gangs and trying cigarettes and dying your hair. What're you going to do next? Kill a person?"

I give him a look and he laughs at my reaction, before his hand raises to thread strands of red hair through his fingers. "I was lying when I said I didn't like it. It makes you look pretty badass."

"I can't keep up with you changing your mind," I tell him. "You're confusing."

"I won't anymore," he says. "I promise."

His hand continues to brush over my hair while the two of us sit there as if all is right in the world. We sit in a comfortable silence, both him and the fire keeping me warm and the thoughts of guilt and memories of blood momentarily disappearing from my consciousness. I never thought this would happen; I thought that Blake would always have some strong, unprovoked hatred towards me, but he's quickly changing into the most likeable person I know.

I'm caring about him too much. I'm liking him too much.

But I don't want to do anything to change that.

I curl further into him, wrapping the blanket tighter around me. He smiles, his arm winding around me and bringing me even closer, and I swear my insides quiver with an unknown feeling. "You should sleep," he mumbles. "It's late and it's been one hell of a day."

I shake my head, sitting up again. "I don't want to."

"You'll be fine."

"I'll have nightmares."

"I'll be here if you do."

My brow furrows. "You're not leaving me?"

He shakes his head, his arms wrapping around me once again. "I'm comfortable right here."

I don't bother trying to convince him to leave. I don't want him to.