The physical similarities between him and James strike me anew, the evidence of their shared DNA never clearer than when they’re standing close together. They’re both difficult to behold up close; both possessed of shocking, extraordinary beauty. They have the same cheekbones, the same nose, the same broad shoulders and air of authority—electric and powerful.
The differences between them, however, feel vast.
We come to an uncertain stop. Crickets have begun to chirp in the distance. I feel the weight of the soldiers’ eyes; the moon looming above, bearing witness. It feels as if we’vereached an executioner at the end of an altar.
“Let go of her,” Warner says quietly.
“She can’t stand on her own,” James argues.
“That’s her problem, not yours,” he says.
“Yeah, but she’s my problem. So her problems are my problems.”
“James.” He says the word quietly, lifting his head to level his brother a look so severe I feel the chill secondhand. “You are overestimating my affection for you.”
James rolls his eyes in response.
I’m stunned.
I look from him to his brother, alarms sounding in my head. I wouldn’t think it wise to call this man’s bluff. Warner was born into the arms of the original movement; he became the chief commander and regent of what used to be Sector 45 at only eighteen years old. His legacy is legendary and terrifying. I can only imagine the blood that forged him. He looks capable of anything—
“Whatever,” James says. “I think you’re underestimating my influence in your life.”
Warner sharpens, his eyes flaring in anger, and fear arrows through my body.
“I can stand on my own,” I lie quickly. “I’ll be fine—”
“You were looking for her,” James says to his brother, cutting me off. “I found her. You’re welcome. Can we get out of here now? I’m freezing.” He gestures to the soldiers behind us. “It’s been a long day. Everyone is exhausted.”
“Everyone is exhausted?” Warner echoes, his eyes widening a fraction. “You care whether everyone is exhausted? Ididn’t realize you possessed the imagination necessary to conceptualize the needs and feelings of others.”
James sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t do this. Not here. Not right now—”
“Then step away from her.”
“I can’t. She’ll literally fall over.”
“Is this some display of delayed adolescence?” says Warner. “Have you finally decided to rebel against authority?”
“Don’t be a dick,” James says.
One of the soldiers audibly gasps.
Warner studies James, a ghost of an angry smile on his face. “I won’t ask you again.”
“No.”
“James—” I say, panicking.
Warner animates with movement so fluid I don’t even see him reach for a gun before he shoots James in the leg.
I nearly scream.
James fights back a cry, reactively releasing me as he staggers, trying to catch himself with only one arm.
I land badly on my own injured leg, nearly biting through my tongue to contain a scream, with uneven results. Agony rushes back into my body with a force so violent I nearly faint. I blink, beads of perspiration rising along my forehead, the nape of my neck. I fight to stay in my skin, breathing rapidly as an altogether different ache fractures across my chest.Thisis why James refused to let me go.
He was managing my pain.
