Her smile grows uncertain. “You can understand why we had to keep the details from you. It was imperative that your first engagement happen as organically as possible; Klaus determined that your chances of success with the subject would be higher if he had reason to underestimate your intelligence.By failing to kill him, you presented yourself as weak—a conclusion further abetted by your final plea for your sister. You evinced a convincing, pitiable frailty that diminished his opinion of you as a rival, and by sparing your life he’s established a subconscious emotional precedent as your protector, a development we hope to—” She hesitates, glancing at another screen. “Ah. Watch. In just a moment he’s going to bathe in that lake, right there—”
She taps on a glimmering body of water in the near distance, pulling it into greater focus, and I’m still processing the wordspitiable frailty, heart pounding as I reassure myself I’ve revealed nothing new, that my greatest weakness has never been a secret. I’ve often felt that The Reestablishment quietly delights in the fact of Clara’s existence, if only because my concern for her gives them leverage to control me.
Abruptly James walks into the frame, approaching the lake just as predicted. He pulls his shirt over his head, and the sight of his naked upper body is so unexpected I nearly avert my eyes. I don’t want to watch this. It feels voyeuristic to watch this. And yet, I can’t look away from the screens.
I’m notallowedto look away from the screens.
I further neutralize my expression as he reveals an expansive chest, an exquisitely honed torso. Dried blood is painted down his neck, smeared across his sternum, and confusingly this only heightens his physical appeal. I feel the rise of a disconcerting heat as I study him, physical awareness kindling inside me without my conscious permission.
The sheer power of his beauty is terrifying.
The sharp slope of his nose,the brutal cut of his jaw, the staggering brawn of his body. He’d be easier to categorize if his severe lines weren’t softened by surprises: easy laughter; the wrinkle of his nose; gleaming eyes. He’s tanned everywhere the sun might touch, with a dusting of freckles scattered across his upper back. In contrast to his sun-kissed skin, the white of countless nicks and scars screams in protest. I file away this information: his healing powers do not erase the attempts on his life.
Absently, I touch a hand to my throat.
I wonder whether James will always wear the mark of our first meeting. I will forever remember, with excruciating clarity: the way I faltered when he touched me, the way he caught me on impulse, holding me steady even as I prepared to murder him.
I experience a pinprick of shame.
“What did I say?” Damani is smiling. “Amazing, right?”
“Amazing.”
The dossier I was given lists his age at twenty-one years old. His eyes, blue. His hair, brown. But in the glow of afternoon sun I see that his hair is more gilded than originally presented; from above, golden strands glint in the filtered light, lending an unexpected glamour to his appearance. It makes me wonder whether he was blonder as a child. It makes me wonder what he was like as a child, full stop.
As the son of a supreme commander he couldn’t have had an easy upbringing, and yet I cannot comprehend what emotional equation would account for the way he smiles, as if it costs him nothing. There’s something playful about him even in anger; I’ve never seen someone make violence seem casual. His unpredictability makes me nervous.
I keep searching him for patterns and uncover inconsistencies instead.
Damani pulls up a different screen, this one from the perspective of a field mouse staring squarely at him from a tree branch. James stills, as if sensing the camera, then looks over his shoulder and scowls, flipping off the tree before unbuttoning his pants.
“Perverts,” he says.
Discomfort pools inside me. I watch only his feet as he treads into the crystalline waters. He mutters a soft oath, flinching at the temperature, then dives fully into the lake.
Damani stiffens beside me. “What did he just say?”
I glance up at her sharp tone.
To herself, she says: “Play that back.”
Again, we watch James test the water, curse under his breath, and then dive into the lake.
“No,” she says, speaking with someone I can’t see. “No, he was supposed to sayson of a bitch, notson of anicybitch. Yes, look, I realize it seems like a minor detail to you, but this isn’t the first time—”
Damani leaves the room, the sound of her boots echoing. She turns briefly to seal the soundproof glass door, trapping me inside with a hundred angles of a half-naked James before leaning against a nearby pillar.Her eyes narrow as she watches me, her mouth moving rapidly. I return my eyes to the monitors.
I cannot deny that James is mesmerizing to watch.
He radiates a force and magnetism palpable even through the distance of a screen. The spectacle of his uncommon beauty puts me at a great disadvantage. It’s jarring to occupy space with him, and this fact so unnerved me the first time we met that I nearly failed to kill him. I can’t afford to be caught off guard again.
I take a tight breath, forcing myself to look at him.
To grow tired of looking at him.
He submerses himself over and over in the icy depths, pushing wet hair out of his eyes, rivers of diluted blood sluicing down his body. I wonder, as I watch him, whether he has any recollection of what was done to him. He likely doesn’t know that he was submerged in the cradle over and over during the initial hours of his imprisonment. He probably accounts for the lapses in his memory as falling asleep; a misappropriation of time. He’d never guess that Klaus was able to map his mind, mine his psychological history, and approximate his reaction to thousands of different scenarios for the duration of a twenty-four-hour period. The program is still imperfect, unfinished—and yet they were able to design a limited plan of action and reaction. As a result, they were able to steer James directly toward the outcome they desired most, all while allowing him to believe his decisions were his own.
The profitable illusion of free will.
