Rhodes’s smile grew tighter, and he let out a choked laugh. “With all due respect, Officer, I think we are well qualified to handle anything that may arise. The sooner we bring order back to this community, the sooner we can all feel safe.”
Wells knew the look in Rhodes’s eye. It was the special combination of disdain, mockery, and envy that he’d been seeing in people’s faces his entire life. Being the Chancellor’s son had never been simple. Rhodes looked at Wells and saw a spoiled, know-it-all child. Wells could single-handedly build a cabin for each of the new Colonists, and Rhodes would still see him as an entitled show-off. As the son of the one person who had stood between the Vice Chancellor and the top job, Wells was the symbol of Rhodes’s frustration.
Any goodwill Wells may have earned as the person who kept the hundred alive for the first few weeks was quickly dissipating, along with his influence. If this was his last chance to speak directly with Rhodes, then he was going to use it well.
“Yes, sir,” Wells said in his most respectful tone. Rhodes saluted him stiffly, clearly pleased with himself. He spun on his heel and began to walk away, the guards trailing him like obedient pets. “There is just one thing,” Wells called to Rhodes’s back. The Vice Chancellor stopped and turned back, looking annoyed. “The prisoner, Bellamy Blake.”
Rhodes’s eyes narrowed. “What about him?”
“He is vital to the survival of this camp.”
“Excuse me, Officer?” Rhodes shook his head in disbelief. “Are you referring to the young man who almost got your father killed?”
“Yes, I am, sir. Bellamy is by far the best hunter we have. He has kept us all alive. We need him.”
The smile fell from Rhodes’s face, and his expression grew cold. “That boy,” Rhodes said slowly, “is a murderer.”
“He’s not,” Wells said, trying hard to sound calmer than he felt. “He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. He was just trying to protect his sister.” He’d hoped Bellamy’s protectiveness would strike a chord with the Vice Chancellor, but the word sister only prompted a sneer. Wells could only imagine what would happen if, out of desperation, he admitted that Bellamy was his brother.
“He’s the reason your father isn’t here,” Rhodes spat. “The reason I’m in charge.” With that, he spun around and stormed away.
Wells watched him go, his heart sinking. There would be no leniency for Bellamy. No mercy.
CHAPTER 8
Clarke
The stitches weren’t holding. Clarke clenched her jaw as she cleaned the wound on Bellamy’s shoulder for the third time that day. She knew objectively that her frustration wasn’t helping, but she was half out of her mind trying to figure out what to do next. She could take her chances and hope Bellamy’s body fought off an infection and began to heal despite the stitches. Or she could remove the stitches and put new ones in—but that would put him at risk for reopening the wound inside, which could set him back.
She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and tried to focus. Though Bellamy had been lucky that the bullet had made a clean exit, it had entered in the worst possible place, within millimeters of a major artery. It would have been a tricky spot to stitch up if they had been back on the ship with a sterile surgical suite and bright lights. But in this dark cabin, with two guards hovering over Bellamy and bumping into Clarke every time she tried to check his wound, it was nearly impossible.
This was why doctors weren’t supposed to operate on people they cared about. She could barely keep her hands from shaking, let alone make an objective decision under pressure. She felt Bellamy’s forehead with the back of her hand. His fever had come down, which was a good sign, but he was still disoriented and in a lot of pain. It made Clarke sick to think of how much he was suffering—and how little she could do to help him.
“Clarke?” a weak voice called from across the room. “Clarke? I need you, please.” It was Marin, an older woman with a deep gash in her leg. Clarke had cleaned and stitched the wound, but they were running desperately low on painkillers, which meant they could only be used in the most dire cases.
“I’ll be right there,” Clarke said. It killed her to leave Bellamy, but there were still so many people who needed serious medical care that Clarke couldn’t spend more than a few minutes with him at a time. She squeezed his hand, and he half opened his eyes, smiled, and gave her hand a weak squeeze in return. She gently placed his arm back down on the cot and turned, bumping into one of the guards.
“Excuse me.” Clarke could barely keep the irritation out of her voice. The constant security wasn’t just excessive—it was hampering her ability to care for her patients. Where was Bellamy supposed to go while semiconscious and half-delirious with fever?
“Clarke, please? It hurts.” The voice was plaintive, desperate now.
Clarke didn’t have time to wallow. She had dressings to change and medicine to administer. Yet while she was grateful for the chance to be helpful, the exhausting, around-the-clock care she had to provide wasn’t enough to clear her mind of worry. Every time she caught a glimpse of Rhodes, her body seized with fury and disgust. Not only had he nearly killed Bellamy, but he was essentially keeping her prisoner. There was no way she could leave the camp with Bellamy in danger, and every hour that passed was one that could’ve been spent tracking down her parents. As far as they knew, she was still on the Colony, not standing on the same ground, under the same sky. It was a thought almost too frustrating to contemplate.