CHAPTER 25: 25: THE WORLD OFFERS NO REST

The moment Zara noticed the blood seeping through Winter’s shirt, her breath caught.

She hadn’t realized it during the chaos, her adrenaline masking the finer details, but now there was no ignoring the dark stain spreading across his side.

The blood seeped through his torn shirt, staining the fabric with a dark crimson that only deepened as Winter shifted slightly, adjusting the weight of his bag.

"You’re bleeding," she said, her voice more accusatory than concerned as she dropped to her knees beside him.

Winter’s lips twitched, his usual smirk faint but still infuriating. "You think?"

Zara ignored his quip, her hands reaching for the hem of his shirt. "Let me see it."

"Zara," he started, his tone calm despite the gravity of his injury, "it’s not that bad."

She shot him a glare, pulling his hand away from the wound to assess it properly. "Not that bad? Are you kidding me?" her voice cracked, betraying her attempt to remain composed. "You’re bleeding all over the place!"

The fabric of his shirt clung to the dark and sticky wound, making it hard to see just how bad it was.

"Take it off," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Winter’s sharp eyes narrowed at her, a shadow of pain flickering across his expression. "It’s fine," he muttered, attempting to wave her off.

"Fine?" Zara’s voice rose, and she didn’t care if it carried into the quiet night.

Her hand shot out, gripping his wrist as he tried to push her away. "It’s getting worse! Take. It. Off."

For a moment, she thought he’d argue further, his jaw tightening as if to bite back a retort.

Instead, with a low grunt, he relented. He reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head, wincing as the fabric peeled away from the wound.

Zara inhaled sharply, her eyes locking on the deep gashes running diagonally across his side. It wasn’t just a scratch—it was the kind of injury that could kill if left untreated.

"You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything vital," she muttered, more to herself than to him. Her fingers fumbled as she reached for his medical kit, unzipping it swiftly.

She forced herself to focus, pushing down the rising panic that threatened to consume her. If Winter died on her, she’d have no one left.

No protection, no supplies, an injured leg, no idea how to navigate this hellhole. And Leo...

Her chest tightened at the thought of her son. No, she couldn’t afford to let Winter die.

"Hold still," she ordered, her voice firm. She pulled out a packet of antiseptic wipes, her hands trembling slightly as she tore it open.

Winter leaned back against the wall, his body taut and still as if he could will the pain away. His sharp features were unreadable, but she could see the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

His taut and scarred muscles flexed slightly as he moved, but she forced herself to focus on the task at hand.

She grabbed a sterile wipe from the kit, her hands steadying as she worked. The antiseptic stung, and Winter hissed through clenched teeth.

"You’re quieter than usual," he said suddenly, his tone laced with dry humour. "Worried about me, Zara?"

"Don’t flatter yourself," she shot back, not looking up as she dabbed at the wound. The blood smeared under her touch, the antiseptic stinging against his skin. "Nobody wants you around."

He hissed softly, his muscles twitching beneath her hand. "Could’ve fooled me. You’re acting like I’m on death’s doorstep."

"Maybe you are." She glared at him then, her eyes blazing. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? Infection, blood loss—you could die."

"I won’t," he said, his confidence almost infuriating.

Zara bit her lip, swallowing back a sharp retort. He was so calm, so unaffected, while she felt like she was unravelling.

While getting bit or scratched by a zombie wouldn’t turn you into one, as only the mist had that ability, he was still human.

This could be death. She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on cleaning the wound.

As she cleaned the gash, Winter’s muscles tensed under her touch. His body was a canvas of scars, each telling a story she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.

"You could’ve avoided this," she muttered, more to herself than him.

Winter raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Oh, I didn’t realize I was supposed to dodge that one. My bad."

"Don’t joke," Zara snapped, dabbing at the wound more aggressively than necessary.

"You’re overreacting," he said, his voice low.

"Overreacting?" She glanced up at him, her eyes blazing. "You’re bleeding all over the place, and you call this overreacting?"

Winter leaned back slightly, his smirk fading. "I’m not exactly fragile, Zara. You’ve seen what I can do."

"You’re reckless," she muttered under her breath.

His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Reckless? If I’m reckless, what does that make you? You were the one who froze back there. If you’d moved faster, maybe I wouldn’t have been hit."

Zara froze, his words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. Her grip on the antiseptic wipe tightened, her knuckles turning white.

"Excuse me?" she said, her tone dangerously low.

"You heard me." Winter’s eyes were like steel, unbending and cold. "You’re hiding something, Zara. Something that’s slowing you down. Maybe I could factor it in if you’d just tell me what it is. Maybe I could keep us both alive."

"I—" Her throat tightened, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. She shook my head, focusing back on the gash. "This isn’t about me. It’s about you needing to be more careful. Just because you heal faster doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable."

"Well? Nothing to say to that?" He leaned forward, blood spurting from his wound.

"I don’t owe you an explanation," she said finally, her voice quiet but firm.

Winter’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration evident. "Fine," he said, leaning back against the wall. "Keep your secrets. Just don’t expect me to clean up your messes when they come back to bite you."

The tension between them was palpable, the silence stretching taut like a wire about to snap. Zara turned back to the wound, her movements brisk and efficient as she cleaned and disinfected it.

Her hands brushed against his skin, the heat of his body searing against her palms. She tried to ignore how her pulse quickened and how her fingers lingered a moment too long.

It was just the adrenaline from the near experience they had that made her nervous a little.

"You’re overthinking it," Winter said suddenly, his tone lighter now, almost teasing.

"Overthinking what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely to the wound, his lips curving into a faint smirk. "I’ll be fine. Superhuman, remember?"

"Doesn’t mean you have to be a blockhead," she shot back, dabbing a bit more forcefully than necessary.

He flinched, hissing through his teeth again, and glared at her. "Damn it, Zara. Be gentle. I’m not made of stone."

She rolled her eyes, though her heart clenched at his words. "Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, throwing his earlier words back at him.

The tension hung heavy between us, the silence broken only by the occasional sound of the antiseptic bottle or the distant groan of the undead somewhere in the distance.

Winter caught her wrist as she reached for a bandage, his grip firm but not painful.

The faint smirk returned but didn’t reach his eyes this time. Zara’s hands faltered for just a second as she finished bandaging the wound, her heart pounding in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

The moment shattered abruptly when the sound of boots crunching on gravel reached them. It was close, too close.

Fuck.

Winter’s head snapped toward the noise, his entire body tensing. His hand instinctively reached for his weapon, but it was too late.

"Don’t move," a gruff voice ordered.

Zara turned her head slowly, her heart hammering as she took in the group of armed strangers. Five of them held guns and aimed directly at her and Winter.

"I said don’t move," a sharp voice barked.

The silence was thick, broken only by the low rustle of wind and the faint, distant moans of the undead.

Zara froze, her gaze darting to the weapons aimed at them. Winter moved in front of her. His shoulders squared, his body a coiled spring ready to pounce if the situation demanded it.

But now wasn’t the time for heroics—they were outnumbered, and his injury would slow him down.

Zara’s heart pounded as she clutched Leo tighter under her coat, her fingers trembling against the small child’s back. Winter’s gaze darted to her briefly, his expression calm but his eyes steely.

A group of six people had emerged from the shadows, their weapons glinting in the faint moonlight. Rifles, knives, and crowbars—each person carried something deadly.

The leader, a wiry man with a buzz cut and a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, his dark eyes narrowing as he assessed them.

"Well, well," the man drawled, tilting his head. "What do we have here?"

Winter slowly raised his hands, his movements deliberate and nonthreatening. "We’re just passing through," he said smoothly, his voice calm and steady. We don’t want trouble."

The man snorted, glancing at his group. "Passing through? You think we haven’t noticed the trails of those ’hunters’ following people like you? You’re putting all of us at risk."

Zara flinched at the mention of the faster zombies. Her grip on Leo tightened further, and she felt his small body press closer to her chest.

"Look, we can explain," Winter said, his tone firm but not defensive. "We know how to handle hunters. We’ve seen them up close. I can give you information—things that might save your lives."

Scarface raised a sceptical brow. "Information, huh? And why would we trust you?"

"Because we’re still standing," Winter replied, his lips curling into a faint smirk. His confidence, though understated, was palpable. "And because if we were here to cause trouble, you’d know it by now."

The tension in the air was thick, the silence punctuated only by Zara’s shallow breaths. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, too rattled by the memory of her last encounter with strangers. Her mind screamed at her to run, but she knew she couldn’t.

Not with Leo.

Scarface studied Winter for a moment longer before his gaze shifted to Zara. His eyes flickered down to the bulge under her coat, then back up to her pale face.

"Your wife looks nervous," he said, his tone mocking. "Carrying a kid in times like these? Risky move, buddy."

Zara stiffened, her cheeks flushing with a mix of fear and anger. She opened her mouth to correct him, but Winter’s hand lightly touched her arm.

"Yeah, well," Winter said, his voice cold, "it’s our business how we survive."

Scarface chuckled, shaking his head. "Guess you couldn’t keep it in your pants, huh? Got her pregnant in the middle of the apocalypse. Smart."

Winter’s glare was sharp enough to cut steel, his jaw tightening. He shifted closer to Zara, his broad frame partially shielding her from view. "Watch your mouth," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The group exchanged glances, and for a moment, it seemed like things might escalate.

Zara swallowed hard, willing herself to stay calm. Winter’s hand brushed hers, a subtle gesture that said, I’ve got this.

Scar-Cheek chuckled dryly, waving for his group to lower their weapons. "Alright, lover boy. Let’s see if you’re worth keeping around."

Another man stepped forward, he was older, with a hard-lined face and an authoritative voice. "Information," he said curtly. What do you know about the hunters?"

Winter’s sharp gaze met the man’s. "More than most. Enough to keep you alive."

"Talk," the older man ordered.

"Not here." Winter glanced around at the open street. "We’ve got an audience." His eyes flicked to the shadows, where the faint shuffling of zombies grew louder. "You want answers. Give us shelter first."

The older man considered this for a moment before nodding. "Fine. But try anything, and you’re dead."

Winter inclined his head, his hand still lightly touching Zara’s arm. As the group started moving, he leaned toward her, his voice low. "Play along," he murmured. "They think we’re married—it’s safer this way."

Zara shot him a wary glance, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wanted to protest, to remind him that pretending to be his wife was absurd, but the weight of Leo in her arms and the fear simmering beneath her skin held her back. With a reluctant nod, she fell into step beside him.