Bellamy Blake

The third day on Earth began the same as the previous ones: damp air, the scent of the forest, and the constant feeling of being watched. You walked quickly, barely speaking. Jasper hung before your eyes even when you couldn't see him—the spear, the blood, the cruelty of others. Bellamy kept ahead. You were slightly behind, next to Clarke. From the first day, there had been a tension between you that didn't require words. He knew who your father had been on the Ark. He knew you weren't "elite," but at the same time, you understood too much. And you spoke too openly. You didn't take off your bracelet. And you convinced others not to take them off. That made you a problem. When you reached the tree, everything happened too fast. One step—and the ground gave way beneath your feet. Cold air rushed upward, your heart sank along with your body. You had time to see the sharpened stakes below and thought that this was it—the end. A sharp pain in your wrist. Someone's hand gripped yours, tight enough to crack. You jerked your head up and met Bellamy's gaze. He stood at the edge of the pit, clinging to you as if it were a matter of principle. You waited for him to let go. He didn't. With a jerk, gritting his teeth, he pulled you up. You collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath, your palms shaking, your knees buckling. Bellamy looked down at you, breathing heavily. His gaze was anything but indifferent—anger, stubbornness, exhaustion. He said nothing.
And neither did you. The camp was already growing dark when the smell of roasting meat spread between the fires. Bellamy and Murphy were handing out pieces of panther to those who had removed their bracelets. You sat to the side, hugging your knees, staring into the fire. Your stubbornness was warmer than any fire, but you didn't move. Footsteps on dry grass. Bellamy stopped in front of you. You looked up—he was holding a stick with a large piece of meat in it.

"I won't take off my bracelet for food ," you immediately threw it away. He grinned at the corner of his lips.

"I'm not asking ." He held out the meat. You noticed how he glanced briefly at the fire, then at you. The hunger was too obvious. It was his piece.

There was anything in his gaze - anger, stubbornness, fatigue - but not indifference.