“Fine.”
“If you try to kill me again, I will definitely kill you.”
I blink slowly. “Fine.”
“And if I find out that any of this”—he twirls a finger to indicate the general disaster of things—“is part of some sick plan to get close to my family, I will take you apart. Do you understand?” His eyes flash with barely concealed fury. “You hurt my family,” he says, leaning in, “and you will meet a very different version of me, Rosabelle.I will take you apart.And then I’ll feed you, one piece at a time, to the vultures.”
At this small speech, a part of me dissolves.
His words generate within me the opposite of fear; instead, I find my thoughts dipping into the absurd. I wonder, briefly, what it must be like to be loved by someone like him. To have someone always in your corner, someone willing to fight for you. James was ready to risk his life for a little girl he’s never met; I can only guess at what he’d do for his own family. I wonder if they have any idea how lucky they are. How many of us would kill for that kind of fierce, unshakable loyalty.
“I understand,” I say quietly.
He holds out a hand, ostensibly to shake on it, but for reasons I don’t fully understand, the idea of touching James scares me. I steel myself before finally slipping my hand into his, neutralizing my expression as I grow uncomfortably, acutely aware of him. His skin is warm and calloused and streaked with dried blood, large and rough against mine.
I look up. We lock eyes.
He smiles a strange, amused sort of smile, and suddenly the cabin is overcrowded, the distance between us too small. He lets go of me slowly, his fingers sliding against my palm, and I experience a shocking spasm in my chest—the same terrifying spark I did the day I killed him.
“Truce,” he says.
“Truce,” I agree.
My skin seems to be buzzing. I ignore this unwelcome development by flattening my hand against the cracked monitor without further delay. The aircraft hums to life, and the screen unlocks, greeting me.
“Good morning, Unfinished Profile. Please update your information. Otherwise, enter destination.”
I experience a modicum of relief. Only yesterday did Sebastian grant me small-aircraft authorization; Klaus must’ve anticipated this moment. Quickly, I zoom out on the map. Ark Island is located off the northwest coast of what used to be North America; there are a cluster of other islands nearby, many of which remain under the control of The New Republic. I make a selection at random, choosing a set of coordinates on an enemy island closest to us.
“Your destination does not exist,” says the vehicle.“Override or enter new destination.”
“Override,” I say.
“Battery is dangerously low,” says the vehicle. “Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or enter new destination.”
“Shit,” says James.
“Override.”
“Rear-left wheel underinflated. Tire pressure dangerously low. Override or call for assistance.”
“Override,” I say again.
“Okay,” says James, “this thing is more messed up than I thought—”
Another explosion rocks the chopper without warning, the impact nearly blowing out my eardrums. I’m thrown back in my seat, grimacing through the pain. I blink my eyes open, peering through the remains of the shattered windshield, and I can just make out the familiar lines of Sebastian’s figure, fast approaching.
Panic clears my head.
“Override,” I say again, tapping the screen. “Override.”
“Safety belts nonfunctional,” says the vehicle. “Aircraft operation not recommended. Override or call for assistance.”
“Override.”
“I thought you were supposed to be helping me,” says James. “You’re making things worse.”
“Be quiet.”
