I glance up, surprised.
He’s nervous.
Another unsteady breath escapes him and this time, takes with it a measure of control. He steps back, shakes his head, stares up at the ceiling.
Not nervous.
He is distraught.
I should kill him now, I think.Kill him now.
A wave of nausea hits me so hard it nearly knocks me off my feet. I take a few unsteady steps backward, catching myself against a steel table. My fingers grip the cold metal edge and I hang on, teeth clenched, willing my mind to clear.
Heat floods my body.
Heat, torturous heat, presses against my lungs, fills my blood. My lips part. I feel parched. I look up and he’s right in front of me and I do nothing. I do nothing as I watch his throat move.
I do nothing as my eyes devour him.
I feel faint.
I study the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle slope where his neck meets shoulder. His lips look soft. His cheekbones high, his nose sharp, his brows heavy, gold. He is finely made. Beautiful, strong hands. Short, clean nails. I notice he wears a jade ring on his left pinkie finger.
He sighs.
He shakes off his jacket, carefully folding it over the back of a nearby chair. Underneath he wears only a simple white T-shirt, the sculpted contours of his bare arms catching the attention of the dim lights. He moves slowly, his motions unhurried. When he begins to pace I watch him, study the shape of him. I am not surprised to discover that he moves beautifully. I am fascinated by him, by his form, his measured strides, the muscles honed under skin. He seems like he might be my age, maybe a little older, but there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes him seem older than our years combined.
Whatever it is, I like it.
I wonder what I’m supposed to do with this, all of this. Is it truly a test? If so, why send someone like him? Why a face so refined? Why a body so perfectly honed?
Was I meant to enjoy this?
A strange, delirious feeling stirs inside of me at the thought. Something ancient. Something wonderful. It is almost too bad, I think, that I will have to kill him. And it is the heat, the dullness, the inexplicable numbness in my mind that compels me to say—
“Where did they make you?”
He startles. I didn’t think he would startle. But when he turns to look at me, he seems confused.
I explain: “You are unusually beautiful.”
His eyes widen.
His lips part, press together, tremble into a curve that surprises me. Surprises him.
He smiles.
He smiles and I stare—two dimples, straight teeth, shining eyes. A sudden, incomprehensible heat rushes across my skin, sets me aflame. I feel violently hot. Sick with fever.
Finally, he says: “So youarein there.”
“Who?”
“Ella,” he says, but he’s speaking softly now. “Juliette. They said you’d be gone.”
“I’m not gone,” I say, my hands shaking as I pull myself together. “I am Juliette Ferrars, supreme soldier to our North American commander. Who are you?”
He moves closer. His eyes darken as he stares at me, but there’s no true darkness there. I try to stand taller, straighter. I remind myself that I have a task, that this is my moment to attack, to fulfill my orders. Perhaps I sh—
