Chapter 13: Where the Quiet Lingers

The morning sunlight poured into the courtyard, warming the cobblestones and casting soft shadows under the trees. Daryl leaned against the edge of the fountain, arms crossed as Fallou spoke. His tone steady, measured, as if laying out a path he'd already walked a dozen times.

"The people of Montmartre are solid," Fallou said. "They will help us. They've got the resources to get what you need — fuel, supplies — whatever it takes to get you back home. I will accompany you there. Make sure the journey is as smooth as it can be."

Carol's arms were folded as she stood behind Daryl. "How long will it take to get there?" She asked.

"Three, maybe four days," Fallou replied. "We'll stick to the backroads to avoid any patrols. It won't be easy, but it's the safest route."

Isabelle stood slightly apart, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Though she'd grown stronger over the past few days, a faint weariness still lingered in her posture. "And once we're there?" She asked quietly. "Will they have the fuel ready?"

"They're preparing," Fallou said. "I've already sent word ahead. Once we arrive, they'll take you in and keep you safe while the rest of the plan comes together."

Daryls's brow furrowed, his gaze steady on Fallou. "And Lucien? Claire and Etienne?"

"They're staying here." Fallou said firmly. "Lucien's made it clear he'll be more useful here, helping with the injured and building something sustainable. Etienne and Claire agree— this place has potential for the people who want to make it work. They believe rebuilding here will be their best shot."

Carol nodded thoughtfully. "And Montmartre? It's secure?"

Fallou met her gaze without hesitation. "We have made it through far worse than this."

Daryl straightened, his arms falling to his sides as his voice cut through the tension. "We leave at first light then." he said firmly.

Fallou nodded. "I'll make sure everything's ready."

The common room brimmed with quiet energy, its worn walls and uneven floorboards softened by the golden glow of oil lamps scattered across the long wooden table. The faint crackle of a fire in the hearth mixed with the low hum of voices and the occasional scrape of a chair. The scent of herbs and stew filled the air.

Daryl, Isabelle, Laurent and Carol sat side by side near one end of the table. Across from them, Lucien, Claire, and Etienne sat together. Lucien leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his keen eyes observing the group.

Fallou approached from the hearth, a large serving spoon still in hand. He ladled another portion of stew into a nearby bowl before finally taking his seat at the head of the table. His presence commanded attention without effort, and as he raised his cup, the room grew quieter.

"To the road ahead," he said, his deep voice steady and resonant, "and to the people who walk it with us."

Lucien raised his bowl, his expression thoughtful. "And to those who stay behind, building something worth coming back to."

The toasts rippled through the table, the clink of bowls and cups punctuating the sentiment. Laughter bubbled up from one end, soft and subdued, as people exchanged nods and faint smiles. For a moment, the weight of the world outside the room seemed to ease, replaced by the quiet warmth of shared company.

The room buzzed softly with conversation as bowls were passed and hands reached for the loaf of bread sitting at the center of the long table. The golden glow of oil lamps painted the faces around the room with warmth, and for a brief moment, the tension that lingered at the edges of every breath seemed to ease.

Daryl, seated beside Isabelle, ate with his usual efficiency, though his movements weren't as sharp or guarded as usual. Isabelle stole a glance at him, a faint smile touching her lips.

Laurent, seated beside Carol, glanced up at her with curiosity sparkling in his eyes. "Miss Carol," he began, his voice polite but eager, "where in America are you from?"

Carol paused mid-bite, her brow lifting slightly at the question. She smiled faintly. "I'm from a small town on the outskirts of Atlanta," she said. "It's quiet. Was quiet. Hardly anything there but a post office and a diner."

Laurent tilted his head, intrigued. "And Daryl? Is he from the same place?"

Daryl glanced up from his bowl, his expression neutral. "Different part. Close enough, though."

Lucien chimed in from across the table, his voice calm but probing. "It must be strange, coming from so far away to find yourself here. Do you miss it? The familiarity of home?"

Daryl's jaw tightened slightly, his fingers brushing the rim of his bowl as if weighing his answer. Before he could respond, Isabelle's soft voice filled the space between them.

"Home isn't always a place," she said softly, her gaze steady as she looked at Lucien. "Sometimes, it's the people you're with."

Her words settled over the table, drawing quiet nods from a few others. Carol gave Isabelle a faint smile, her expression thoughtful. Across the table, Etienne and Claire exchanged a look, as if silently agreeing.

Daryl glanced at Isabelle, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—acknowledgment, maybe even agreement. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he finally spoke.

"I miss the heat," he said gruffly, his tone laced with faint humor. "But hell, I missed that even when I was in Ohio. Kinda used to bein' in unfamiliar territory by now."

Laurent tilted his head. "You've moved around a lot?"

Daryl nodded, chewing on his bottom lip as the memories were passing through him. "Yeah. My group… my family… we've been all over. I've seen more of the world since it ended than I ever did before."

Laurent's brow furrowed, his interest piqued. "Doesn't that make it feel less scary? To go somewhere new?"

Daryl's gaze softened, and he gave a slight shrug. "Don't think it ever gets less scary. Just... learn to deal with it better." He glanced at Laurent, his tone gentler. "Ain't about not bein' afraid. It's about doin' it anyway."

Laurent nodded slowly, his expression contemplative as he absorbed Daryl's words. Across the table, Lucien observed the exchange with quiet interest, his sharp eyes flicking between the boy and the man.

"You've always had to adapt," Isabelle said softly, her gaze steady on Daryl. "It's one of the reasons you've made it this far."

Daryl met her eyes for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. "Maybe," he said gruffly, his voice low.

Carol, who had been quietly listening, spoke up, her voice thoughtful. "It's true. We've all had to adapt, but Daryl... he's always had this way of finding strength, even when the rest of us couldn't."

Daryl shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Ain't nothin' special about it," he muttered. "Just did what I needed to do."

Carol smiled faintly, a knowing look in her eyes. "Maybe that's what makes it special."

Laurent looked between them, his young face even more soft in the dim light. "How long have you known each other?"

Carol chuckled softly, the sound warm and nostalgic. "Feels like a lifetime," she said, glancing at Daryl. "But it's been... what? Over twelve years now?"

"Somethin' like that," Daryl muttered, his voice gruff.

Claire leaned forward slightly, her expression curious. "Twelve years is a long time, especially in times like these. And to come to the other side of the world to find him. That kind of bond... it's rare."

"It is," Carol agreed, her voice quiet but firm. "We've been through a lot together. More than most people could handle."

Daryl's gaze flicked to her briefly before landing back on the table.

"Daryl, How on earth did you end up in France of all places?" Etienne said, a hint of humor in his voice.

Daryl shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze flicking to Laurent before landing back on the table. His voice, though rough, carried a quiet weight. "I was lookin' for my brother, Rick. Thought I had a lead… followed it and found trouble. Next thing I know, I'm on the other side of the damn world." He huffed a small, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if still baffled by how far he'd come.

Lucien finished his stew and pushed his bowl back to where he could rest his elbows on the table. "And this Rick... he's your blood brother?"

Daryl shook his head. "Nah, not by blood," he said quietly. "But that don't matter. He's family. Always was." His tone softened on the last words, the gruffness giving way to something deeper.

"Well, Madam, Monsieur... May we all have the fortune of having a family like yours." Lucien smiled and raised his glass to them.

Daryl offered a small nod in acknowledgment, his expression softening just slightly at Lucien's words. He reached for his glass, lifting it in a quiet gesture of thanks.

Lucien's smile widened, and he raised his glass higher. "To family," he said, his voice resonant with quiet conviction. "By blood or by bond."

The others followed suit, the clinking of glasses and bowls carrying through the room. Isabelle glanced at Daryl, her own glass raised, her eyes warm with unspoken understanding. He caught her gaze.

"To family," she echoed softly.

The group sipped from their glasses, the moment lingering as the shared sentiment settled over them. It wasn't just a toast; it was a reminder of what they were fighting for, of what they'd already survived to protect. In the quiet camaraderie of the room, surrounded by the faint hum of voices and the golden glow of the lamps, it almost felt like a fleeting glimpse of normalcy.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light through the skeletal branches of the trees that bordered the narrow path. The air had warmed slightly from the chill of morning, but the damp earth still clung to their boots. The group moved in a steady rhythm, their footsteps softened by the forest floor. Conversation had been sparse, the hours of walking settling them into a quiet focus.

Daryl walked at the head of the group, his black coat hanging loose over his shoulders, his morning star strapped securely to his hip. His eyes scanned the path ahead, every sound and movement drawing a flick of his gaze. Behind him, Fallou carried his rifle slung over his shoulder, his steady presence as much a shield as it was a guide.

Carol walked a little farther back with Isabelle and Laurent. Her eyes moved between the trees, taking in the unfamiliar landscape with the practiced caution of someone used to danger. She'd stayed quiet most of the morning, letting the rhythm of the road sink in.

Laurent broke the silence, his voice curious but quiet as he glanced up at Carol. "You've never been to Montmartre, have you Carol?"

Carol shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Nope, first time for me."

"It's high up," Laurent said, his eyes lighting up at the thought. "The rooftops are like a whole other world. You can see so far."

"Sounds beautiful," Carol said, her smile softening.

As they crested a small hill, Fallou slowed, signaling the group to pause. He turned, his gaze sweeping over them. "We'll stop here for a bit," he said. "Drink some water, eat if you need to. We've got a few more hours of daylight ahead."

The group shifted, finding spots to sit or lean against dropped his pack with a quiet grunt, crouching near a moss-covered log as he dug out a canteen. He took a long swig, his eyes scanning the forest edge with practiced ease.

Isabelle settled a few feet away, lowering herself onto the grass with a quiet sigh. She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms loosely around them as her gaze drifted to Daryl. There was a steadiness in his movements, even in something as mundane as drinking water, that she found reassuring. She leaned her head back, letting the sunlight streaming through the branches warm her face. The golden light softened the lines of her features, and for a moment, her expression was unguarded, almost peaceful.

Laurent sat close by, his small pack beside him as his sharp eyes darted between the trees, taking in the sights and sounds of the forest. A light breeze rustled the leaves, and he tilted his head as if listening for something. "It's so quiet out here," he said, his voice soft but thoughtful.

"Quiet's not always a bad thing," Daryl replied, his voice low as he screwed the cap back onto his canteen. "Gives you a chance to hear what's comin'."

Laurent glanced at him, curiosity flickering across his face. "What should we be listening for?"

"Everything," Daryl said simply, his tone carrying the weight of experience. "Birds, leaves, even the wind. Tells you what's normal… and what ain't."

Isabelle opened her eyes, her gaze shifting to Laurent. "Daryl's right. The forest speaks, if you know how to listen." She smiled faintly, a touch of warmth in her tone. "Though sometimes it's nice to just enjoy the quiet for what it is."

Fallou leaned against a tree nearby, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. "The quiet can be deceiving," he said, his voice steady. "It's beautiful, yes. But never forget, the world doesn't stop being dangerous just because it looks peaceful."

Daryl gave a small grunt of agreement, his gaze flicking briefly to Fallou. "Ain't wrong," he muttered.

The sunlight shifted as the breeze rustled the leaves above, dappling the ground with golden patches of light. Fallou straightened from where he leaned against a tree, his rifle resting across his back.

"We should make it to Saint-Hilaire-du-Harcouët by nightfall," he said, his voice steady, but carrying a tone of authority that drew their attention. "We'll shelter there for the night and set out again in the 's a small town—mostly abandoned—but it's defensible."

Carol nodded, adjusting the strap of her pack as she glanced at Daryl. "How far are we from there?"

"Couple more hours if we keep this pace," Fallou replied. "There's an old church at the edge of town. We can stay there—it's high ground, and it's held up well over the years."

Daryl stood, brushing his hands on his pants as he glanced toward the path ahead. "Sounds good. Let's not waste too much time then."

The sun had just dipped below the horizon, streaks of pink and orange fading into the deepening blue of twilight. The group approached the outskirts of Saint-Hilaire-du-Harcouët, the town eerily quiet except for the faint rustle of the evening breeze. In the dim light, the silhouette of the church came into view, its twin spires reaching high into the sky, casting long shadows over the empty parking lot that lay at its foot.

The five of them lingered in the shadows of an alley across the street, crouched low as they surveyed the area. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint sound of wind brushing against the trees.

Fallou raised a hand, signaling the group to stay low. "Wait here," he said, his voice firm but calm. He adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder and stepped forward, his gaze scanning every corner as he moved toward the church.

Daryl crouched, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his morning star as his sharp eyes tracked Fallou's movements. He turned slightly, motioning for Laurent and Isabelle to do the same. Laurent mirrored him, his small frame pressed close to Isabelle's side. Isabelle's hand rested lightly on Laurent's shoulder, her eyes steady as she watched Fallou approach the church.

Carol stood at Daryl's side, her hand hovering near the knife on her belt. Her eyes swept the area, taking in the empty streets and abandoned storefronts with practiced caution. "Too quiet," she murmured under her breath, her voice low enough that only Daryl could hear.

Daryl gave a small grunt of agreement, his jaw tightening as he scanned the area again. "Ain't seen any walkers," he muttered, his voice just as quiet. "Don't mean there ain't somethin' worse."

Fallou reached the base of the church steps, his boots barely making a sound against the worn stone. A man emerged from the shadows of the heavy wooden doors, his lined face illuminated faintly by the warm glow spilling out from the church's interior. Fallou stopped a few feet away, exchanging quiet words with the man. Their conversation was brief, the older man gesturing toward the group before nodding and disappearing back inside.

A moment later, Fallou turned and raised his hand again, signaling the group to join him. "It's clear," he called out, his voice carrying just enough for them to hear.

Daryl was the first to rise, his movements quick but deliberate as he crossed the street. Laurent moved to follow, but Isabelle placed a hand on his arm, holding him back for a moment. "Stay close to me," she whispered. Laurent nodded, his expression serious as they stepped out of the alley together.

Carol brought up the rear, her eyes still scanning the surrounding buildings as she crossed.

The heavy doors creaked open as Fallou stepped inside, motioning for the group to follow. The church's interior was dimly lit by candles and lanterns, their warm glow casting long shadows across the stone walls and wooden pews. The air was cool and carried a faint scent of old wood and wax.

The man Fallou had spoken to stood just inside the entrance, his weathered hands resting on a long walking stick. "Welcome," he said simply, his voice quiet but firm. "You'll find shelter here tonight."

Fallou nodded in thanks, his voice steady as he addressed the group. "These are my people. We'll be safe here for the night."

Daryl gave a short nod, his eyes flicking around the church as he assessed the space. Isabelle gently guided Laurent toward a side aisle, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Carol lingered near the entrance for a moment longer, her gaze sweeping over the high vaulted ceilings and worn stone floors before she stepped further inside.

"This way," Fallou said, gesturing for the group to follow him toward a small room off the main sanctuary. Inside, a fire crackled softly in an old iron stove, filling the space with a comforting warmth. Blankets and makeshift bedding were spread across the floor, simple but inviting after the long day's walk.

"You can rest here," Fallou said, his voice low. "I'll bring some food in soon. Get some sleep while you can—we've got a lot more ground to cover tomorrow."

Daryl set his pack down near the wall, his shoulders sagging slightly as the tension in his frame began to ease. Isabelle lowered herself onto one of the blankets, pulling Laurent close as he leaned against her. Carol settled near the stove, rubbing her hands together in the firelight.

"Thank you," Isabelle said softly, her voice carrying the weight of genuine gratitude.

Fallou gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Get some rest," he said simply before stepping out of the room, leaving the group to settle in for the night.

Daryl didn't sit. Instead, he moved toward the nearest window, his boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. He leaned slightly to the side, peering through the glass into the dim moon-lit street outside. His eyes scanned the shadows, searching for movement, any hint of danger. After a moment, he moved to the next window, his gaze sharp and methodical as he repeated the process.

Laurent watched him curiously from where he sat beside Isabelle. "What's he doing?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Making sure we're safe," Isabelle replied, her tone quiet as she gently smoothed Laurent's hair.

Daryl moved to the far corner of the room, where an old wooden cabinet stood against the wall. He pulled the door open carefully, wincing slightly at the creak of its hinges. Inside, he found a few dusty candlesticks, a faded hymnbook, and a stack of folded linens. He stared at them for a moment before quietly closing the door again.

He turned back to the room, his eyes scanning the walls, the ceiling, the darkened corners that the firelight didn't quite reach. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his morning star, a habitual motion that spoke to his ever-present readiness.

Approaching another window, he paused to glance at the small table beside it. A tarnished metal cross lay there, along with a few stubby candles burned nearly to the base. Daryl picked up the cross, turning it over in his hand as if weighing its significance, before setting it back down carefully.

Carol watched him from her spot by the stove, her expression calm but knowing.

Daryl lingered by the window, his sharp gaze once again sweeping the quiet street outside. The distant sound of wind whistling through the spires of the church was the only thing to break the stillness.

When he finally turned back to the group, his movements were deliberate, his tension still present but slightly less rigid. He crossed the room to the fire, crouching down beside it and holding his hands out to the warmth. His eyes flicked briefly to Isabelle and Laurent, the faintest hint of something softer crossing his face before he turned his attention back to the flames.

"We'll keep watch tonight," Carol said. "Just in case."

Daryl didn't respond right away. Instead, he reached for his pack, pulling out a blanket and sitting down near the wall. "I'll take first watch," he muttered, settling in with his back to the stone. His eyes were already scanning the room again.

Isabelle gave him a small, grateful smile before leaning back against the blanket, her hand resting protectively over Laurent's shoulder. For a brief moment, the room felt almost peaceful, the soft crackle of the fire filling the silence. But the tension lingered just beneath the surface.

The faint crackle of the fire had lulled Daryl into a sense of uneasy calm that he fought off for as long as he could. But a short time later, his head had dipped forward, and for just a moment, the exhaustion overtook him.

He jolted awake at the faintest sound—footsteps, muted voices just outside. His eyes snapped open, and his body tensed instinctively. The room was dim, the fire having burned lower, casting only faint light across the room. Carol still sat near the stove, her head resting on her hand, dozing lightly. Laurent and Isabelle lay curled up on their blanket, their breathing soft and steady.

But it was the sound—quiet but unmistakable—that drew Daryl's full attention. He froze, his hand tightening on the handle of his weapon as he strained to listen. Muffled voices again, closer this time, accompanied by the faint creak of the door leading into the main hall.

Rising slowly, Daryl moved toward the nearest window, careful not to disturb the others. The firelight flickered across the room, casting long shadows that danced against the stone walls. He edged closer, his boots making no sound as he reached the frame and peered out cautiously, his breath steady and controlled.

In the dim moonlight, his sharp eyes caught the unmistakable silhouette of a boxy military truck parked just down the road from the church. Its edges gleamed faintly under the pale light, the emblem on the side barely visible but enough to confirm his suspicion—Genet's soldiers. Another truck idled nearby, its engine low and grumbling, the faint murmur of voices drifting up to him. Figures moved around the vehicles, armed and organized.

Daryl's jaw tightened, his mind racing. He turned his head slightly, scanning the edges of the churchyard. He pulled back from the window, his chest rising and falling in controlled breaths as he turned toward Isabelle. She lay curled under her blanket, her face soft in the faint glow of the firelight.

Crossing the room quickly but quietly, Daryl crouched beside her. His hand reached out, steady and deliberate, covering her mouth firmly. Her eyes flew open, startled, but he was already leaning in, his finger pressed to his lips.

Isabelle's eyes flew open, startled, but the urgency in his gaze stilled her. She nodded faintly, her breathing quickening as realization set in. Daryl moved his hand away, motioning for her to stay quiet as he straightened, his eyes darting to Laurent. With a quick, silent motion, Isabelle pulled the boy closer to her, shielding him as best as she could with her body. Daryl gestured to Carol, who had begun to stir at the faint noise, and she immediately understood, gripping the knife at her belt.

Laurent stirred beside Isabelle, his small form tense with confusion as she pulled him closer, whispering softly into his ear to keep quiet.

The door to the room creaked open slightly, and Daryl slipped into the shadows near the wall, blending into the darkness as the firelight danced weakly against the stone. A single guard stepped into the room, his shadow stretched long across the floor, his weapon lowered slightly as he scanned the space.

Daryl moved with practiced precision, coming up behind the man in absolute silence. His hand clamped over the guard's mouth as he drove his knife into his neck, the squelch of his ripping flesh deafening in the silent room. The guard's body sagged, and Daryl eased him to the ground.

But before Daryl could turn, the sound of a gun cocking froze him in place. He spun around, his knife raised, only to find another guard standing just inside the doorway, his pistol trained on Isabelle. She knelt on the floor, Laurent pressed tightly against her, the boy's wide eyes filled with fear. The cold metal of the gun was pressed against Isabelle's temple, and her gaze flicked to Daryl, steady despite the tension in her frame.

"Lâchez-le!" ("Drop it!") the guard shouted, his voice harsh.

Daryl's jaw clenched, his eyes darting between Isabelle and the guard. Slowly, he lowered the knife, his hand loosening its grip before the blade clattered softly to the ground.

More guards spilled into the room, their weapons drawn as they quickly took control. One of them roughly grabbed Daryl's arms, binding his wrists with zip ties before shoving him toward the center of the room. Carol was forced to her knees beside him, her glare cutting through the dim light.

Isabelle clutched Laurent tightly, her body shielding him as a soldier grabbed her by the arm, hauling her up roughly. Daryl's eyes darkened as he watched the exchange, his jaw tightening.

"Don't fuckin' touch him." Daryl growled through his clenched teeth.

The guard sneered and shoved Isabelle forward. Laurent was yanked from her grasp, his small cry of alarm piercing the tension in the room.

Daryl surged forward instinctively, but the guards around him shoved him back hard, one of them slamming the butt of a rifle into his stomach. He doubled over briefly, wheezing, before straightening, his glare burning into the men around him.

The lead guard, tall and imposing, barked an order to the others, "Emmène-les au camion." ("Take them to the truck.")

Daryl's chest heaved as he straightened from the blow, his eyes locking onto Laurent, who was struggling against the soldier's grip, his small hands clawing to reach Isabelle. "Laurent!" Isabelle's voice cracked with desperation as she was pulled further away, her arms straining against the guard holding her.

The guards shoved Daryl roughly toward the door, his boots scraping against the worn stone as they forced him forward. Isabelle stumbled as she was pulled along, her gaze darting between Laurent and Daryl, searching for reassurance. Laurent's wide eyes brimmed with terror, but he pressed his lips together, trying to stay brave.

Outside, the cold air hit them like a wall. The trucks sat idling in the churchyard, their boxy frames casting imposing shadows under the moonlight. The headlights threw stark beams across the uneven ground, illuminating the scene in harsh contrast.

Daryl was shoved toward one of the trucks, his shoulder slamming into the cold metal as a guard yanked the back doors open. Another guard grabbed Carol by the arm, forcing her to follow.

Laurent cried out again, his small voice cutting through the chaos. "Isabelle!"

Isabelle twisted in the soldier's grip, her voice fierce despite the fear in her eyes. "Je suis là, Laurent!" ("I'm here, Laurent!")

The guards manhandled the group into the trucks with little regard for their struggles. Daryl was thrown in first, his wrists straining against the zip ties as he hit the metal floor hard. Carol followed, her face set with icy determination. On the other truck, Isabelle and Laurent were pushed inside, the boy scrambling to press against her side the moment they were released.

The doors slammed shut with a deafening clang, the sound reverberating through the cold night. Engines rumbled to life, and the trucks lurched forward, their tires crunching against the gravel.

Inside the cramped, dark space, Daryl sat with his back against the cold metal, his breaths steady but laced with quiet fury. Across from him, Carol leaned against the wall, her arms resting loosely over her knees, her sharp eyes watching him.

"They had to have seen us…," Carol said quietly, her voice calm but edged with anger. "They've been watching, waiting for a moment to make their move."

Daryl nodded, his jaw tight. "Takin' us like this means she's got somethin' planned. Ain't just a warning."

Carol tilted her head, her expression grim. "And it's not just us they're after. If she's got Laurent in her sights…"

"She won't get him," Daryl interrupted, his voice low but firm. His eyes flicked toward the walls of the truck, his mind already working. "They think they've got us cornered. But they don't know who they're messin' with."

Carol gave him a faint, knowing smile. "No, they don't."

Daryl's gaze settled back on her, the fire in his eyes unyielding. His voice was steady, a promise as much as a declaration.

"They're fuckin' with the wrong people."