I’m trying not to think about all kinds of things.
Deception. Betrayal.
The fact that she literally died before my eyes and then came back to life half an hour later.
“You know what I don’t understand?” I say, laughing a little. I sound deranged even to myself. “I don’t get how you’re such a good actor. Being a talented mercenary is already a huge skill—but your theatrical skills are just on a whole different level. I can’t believe I fell for it. All that stuff with the food, with your sister—”
I bring us to a sudden stop, something occurring to me. “Wait, do you even have a little sister? Or was that girl just a plant? Was any of the stuff you told me about yourself true? Should I just assume they were all lies?”
“James—”
“No. Don’tJamesme. If you’re going to say anything to me, make it the fucking truth.” I turn her around, pin her to the wall, press the gun to her throat. “Who are you?” I ask her. “Who are you, really? I don’t even know your real name.”
When she stares up at me, I realize my mistake.
I haven’t seen her face since the moment she pulled a gun on Kenji, and it was easier to live in my anger when I couldn’t see her eyes. Now she’s gazing up at me, soft and calm, with a sadness that feels so real it scares me. She looks wild and heartbroken and a little breathless, color high on her cheeks, eyes gleaming in the dim light. No walls, no shields.She’s looked at me like this—totally and completely unguarded—only one other time. It was the day we met. Right before she killed me.
This was a bad idea.
Looking at her face was a bad idea. I want to turn her around, pretend this never happened, but now I can’t stop thinking about all the places our bodies are touching, and it’s making my head spin: my thigh brushing her bare leg; my hand on her waist. My fingers are pressing into soft flesh through her thin coat, my thumb almost grazing her navel. I lean into her unconsciously, moving no more than an inch, but when my hand slides across her hip she sinks back against the wall, her eyes closing on a sound so faint I think I’ve imagined it.
I want to hear it again.
I’m grappling with my self-control, still gathering my brain cells when she suddenly shifts under my hand, and my reflexive response is to keep her from running away: I step closer, gripping her more tightly, and this time she gasps, color flooding her skin. She blinks at me from under her lashes, her eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with hunger. The sight of her like this—the way she’s looking at me with open, desperate desire—
I can’t breathe.
My skin is too tight, these pants are too tight, my chest is ripping open. I want to taste her, tear open her coat and press my face to her skin. I want to come apart. I want her under my hands, want to breathe her in, want to know what she’d feel like in my arms with nothing between us.Just hours ago I’d have killed for this, for a moment like this.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, my voice like gravel.
She’s staring at my mouth. She blinks up at me, her eyes clearing, returning. “Look at you like what?”
I can’t take this.
I draw away from her and feel the loss immediately. My body is feverish, unsteady. I’m cursing myself, trying to pull myself together. I nudge her forward, one hand still on her waist, the other holding the gun to her neck.
My head is suddenly killing me.
My chest fucking hurts.
Our footsteps echo in the near darkness, orange light glowing at intervals. We’ve been walking in tortured silence for at least twenty minutes when she says my name again. She says it like a question.
“What?” I say, quieting my anger.
“Rosabelle is my real name. I didn’t lie about that.” She exhales. “My full name is Rosabelle Wolff. My family calls me Rosa.”
For some reason, this admission clips me in the gut. “And I do have a younger sister. Her name is Clara,” she says, and her voice catches on the word.
I bring us to a stop.
We’re holding still now, her back to my front, staring at nothing in the dim light of this tunnel, darkness narrowing in the distance. My heart is pounding so hard I feel lightheaded.
“My mother killed herself when I was ten,” she says into the quiet. “Clara was three. I raised her on my own.”
It takes me a second to realize I’m holding my breath. I’ve been pushing forever to get something real out of this girl. And now—
“Clara’s been sick almost all her life. I don’t know why. After my mother’s death she was never the same. She cried nonstop for months. We never had enough food or firewood. Our cottage was always cold, always damp. Sometimes Clara was so hungry she’d chew the skin off her hands.”
