Like it’s the most obvious and natural thing. Like this place is full of them. I shrug off my sense of disquiet and remind myself this place can’t be worse than Mount Haven. The carriers here want to be here. They’re helping one another. And others on the outside, too.

I nod and move on, still feeling his stare. Creeper.

We enter the women’s showers. Basically a locker room. Poor lighting. Concrete on every side. There are hooks and cubbies.

Rhiannon puts the fresh clothes she carries for me inside a cubby and picks up a towel from a folded stack. “Here.”

I take the towel. The fabric is rough and scratchy, but clean at least. I follow her to where the floor slopes into showers that are sectioned off with curtains. I’m almost surprised at the nod to modesty. Everything else feels so utilitarian . . . like such a thing would be beyond concern.

She helps me ease the gown off my shoulders. With careful fingers she peels back the gauze. “Try not to get it too wet. I know you want to wash your hair, but do the best you can to keep this dry. There should be some bottles of shampoo on the ledge in there.”

“Thanks.” Letting the gown pool to my feet, I step behind the nearest curtain. Even lukewarm, the water is heaven. I let it gently beat down on my battered body. I shampoo my hair twice, rubbing my scalp clean with my fingertips, noticing that the water darkens for a moment with some of the residual dye. Remembering Rhiannon’s advice to keep my shoulder as dry as possible, I finish the rest of my shower quickly and shut the water off. The towel appears through the curtain as if by magic, and I realize she must have been waiting on the other side the entire time. Like some kind of bodyguard. I shove off the uneasy sensation.

“Thanks.” I accept it and pat myself dry. Satisfied, I pull back the curtain with a noisy screech of the iron rings—and freeze. A girl stands there, but it’s not Rhiannon. It’s Tabatha. With her hands propped on her hips, her toned arms are highlighted to perfection. My gaze skips over her and skims the room.

“Where’s Rhiannon?”

“Doc needed her. I volunteered to stay.”

Because I can’t be left unsupervised?

Wrapped in the towel, I step from the shower, my modesty suddenly returning in the presence of a girl who looks like she works out every spare moment.

“I wanted to meet you anyway.” She studies me as I move toward my clothes. I feel her gaze on my neck, lingering on the band and the encircled H. This sleek—yes, sexy—dangerous-looking girl evaluates me. I’m almost surprised she doesn’t bear an imprint, too. There’s an aura of power about her. She definitely seems very capable of dispensing violence. They would have loved her at Mount Haven.

Even though a voice tells me I shouldn’t respond to her comment, I hear myself asking, “Why would you want to meet me?”

“I heard about you. The girl who Caden found. Who survived the wilderness alone . . . complete with a bullet wound.” The words are right, but there’s something to them. A lack of respect that crystallizes the point that she really isn’t impressed with me.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly alone, was I? Like you said, Caden found me.”

“Hm.” She lowers herself to a bench and watches me clinically as I dress. “But you got away from the patrols shooting you. So you have some skills.” She looks me over as if searching for evidence of this and not seeing it.

“None to speak of,” I hedge, hoping to appear nonthreatening. Let her think I’m a carrier passing through like all the rest.

“So what’s the deal with this camp you came from?” She brings her braid around her shoulder and toys with the end of it, running the dark strands between her long fingers.

At my sharp look, she shrugs. “I heard them talking about it.” I wince internally at the thought of anyone sitting around . . . discussing me. “They were training you to be some kind of specialized killer, huh?”

“Not really.”

“Did they train you in techniques and stuff?”

Finished dressing, I stand. “Ready?”

She hesitates, clearly wanting me to answer her. Shrugging, she drops her braid and rises from the bench. “Sure.” Even as lukewarm as the water had been, the air outside the room is decidedly less humid, and my breath flows easier out of my lungs.

We don’t make it very far before the iron-grate floor beneath us rattles with the weight of someone coming toward us. I look up and my gaze collides with the dark eyes of a guy who must have played football in his past life—or wrestled. His neck sits thickly on his shoulders. The great width of it only draws more attention to his imprint.

“Enjoyed your shower?” Reproach laces his voice. Like I’m somehow not entitled to such a thing. But it’s a voice I recognize. The nasal quality impossible to forget.

I stare at him, managing a nod.

“We met when you first arrived. I’m Marcus. Captain here.” As though he’s the only captain. He nods to the guy standing close behind him. He’s big, too, with close-set eyes. “This is Ruben.”

I hold silent. Standing between Tabatha, with watchful eyes, and Marcus, I don’t exactly feel like I’m among friends, even though these people and this place are the only things standing between me and certain death.

“Glad to see you’re on your feet. Maybe we can talk now, but not here.” He glances around, his dark eyebrows drawing together. His hair is shaved close to his head in a military-style crew cut. He’s in his midtwenties and holds himself rigidly, his muscled chest pushing against his tight camo T-shirt. “Let’s head to the interrogation room.”