11
Rosabelle
“Get away from me,” I breathe, horrified.
James ducks down beside me, grimacing as he crouches. When he meets my eyes, he gestures to his wounds, to the blood streaked across half his body. “Oh, this?” he says with a shrug. “Nothing to worry about. She told me she loves my freckles.”
“You have to get out of here,” I say, forcing my anger to override the ache in my chest. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one trying to kill me, Rosabelle.”
“Stop,” I say desperately. “This isn’t funny—”
“I agree. We really need to stop meeting like this.”
“James—”
He lifts a hand to my cheek, his eyes tightening as he sweeps his thumb through the tributary of blood still dripping down the side of my face, and I forget to breathe.
“I’d really like to spend some time with you under normal circumstances,” he says, forcing a grim smile. “Dinner. Movie. No murdering. Better ambience.”
I know he’s joking, trying to defuse the tension, but something inside of me grieves the simple dream he’sdescribing. I hope he finds that kind of happiness.
I’ll be long dead by then.
“I haven’t actually murdered anyone,” I admit, presenting this confession self-consciously, like a child offering a crude illustration as art.
James casts me a doubtful glance. “You haven’t murdered anyone?”
“No.”
“You mean, like, in the last five minutes?”
My cheeks heat. “Yes.”
Now he’s fighting a grin. “Wow, Rosabelle, that must’ve been hard for you.”
I don’t answer that.
Shouts echo in the distance. There’s a sudden crack of thunder, and a deluge of rain batters the roof, briefly indistinguishable from gunfire.
“I really need you to get out of here,” I say to him. “Now.”
“Now?” He feigns surprise, looking around as if he were at a party. “Like, right now? But I haven’t even had a chance to say hi to everyone—”
“You never listen to me,” I say angrily. “I need you to listen to me just this once—”
This time, his shock is real. “Inever listen toyou?”
“Being in my orbit will cost you your life. Stay away from me. I heard your brother tell them not to spare you—”
“Who? Warner?” James makes a face. “He’s not going to let anyone kill me. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he says, hesitating. “He’ll definitely let someone shoot me. He mightlet a lot of people shoot me. But if I died on his watch his wife would never forgive him.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, tensing as debris skitter along the ground, rolling carts whining as they’re pushed around by the wind. I hear a shudder of footsteps and adjust my gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. “They’re taking straight shots at my head and they don’t seem to care who they hit.”
James absorbs this in silence.
He seems to see me as if for the first time, his gaze sweeping along my body, his eyes hardening as he takes account of my various injuries. He looks like he’s about to say something when I feel a rush of movement.
