The glint of a knife shone in the darkness as Clove lifted his hands, reaching into Ryland’s hammock. I went still, watching his face from below and trying not to breathe. But Clove’s eyes were expressionless, the cool set of his mouth relaxed, his eyes soft. The hammock shook above me and something hot hit my face. I flinched, reaching up to wipe it from my cheek, and another drop fell, hitting my arm. When I held my fingers to the light, I went still. It was blood.
