Keri Lake

I’m not the pretty delicate thing who flirts and minds her manners. I’m a crude thief, a former street kid, one who does what she has to in order to survive.

“Sometimes, I wish you could talk, Six. I wish you would say one word to me, just so I could hear your voice. But then you look at me, and I realize, I don’t need you to say anything, at all.” I run the pad of my thumb gently over his eyelid. “Your eyes tell me what I need to know.”

“That’s one. There are four.” His words send an anchor of dread to the pit of my stomach, while he settles the gun at my other armpit. “What would you name this girl?” The conversation is so forced and out of place it’s almost laughable, but I go along with it, because he’s right. I need distraction while he gives me the shot.

My body tenses for the next shot, while the first fizzles away. “Wren.”