Rationally, these two desires seem to be in direct conflict; emotionally, they make a strange sense to me.
The rebels’ only reliable move has been to keep James away from me. When he was finally ordered to leave my hospital room, his older brother turned his full attention in my direction, studying me with an unsettling focus, letting the proceeding silence consume us both.
Being alone with Warner reactivated my panic.
I couldn’t hold his searching gaze for long. I turned to the closed door, my broken eyes searching for the ghost of James.
He promised he’d see me later.
I don’t know what thatmeans. I don’t think he can or should make me such promises. And I still don’t understand how he can act so comfortable or casual around Warner.
The elder Anderson brother continues to be terrifying.
“I’d like to know what happened,” he’d said softly, looming over me. “How did you wake yourself up?”
I kept my eyes on the door.
Because, Rosa.
I only dream of the dead.
“Where did you go when you were gone? Why was it so painful to return?”
I only dream of the dead.
“Did James heal you?” Warner asked me. “Is that why you were able to recover?”
Slowly, I turned to look at him.
His piercing green eyes were dazzling in the glare of my distorted vision, his hair a golden nimbus around his head. His skin was luminous. All his edges had been buffed away, softened into something diaphanous and ethereal. He looked almost angelic.
Leaning in, he said, “I think it’s time for you to get to know me, Rosabelle. So I’m going to tell you a secret.”
At that, I stiffened.
“If I discover that your intentions here include seducing my brother in order to manipulate him, I will personally oversee the methodical evisceration of your existence.”
My heart hammered in my chest.
“You’ve infiltrated the wrong family. Betray him, and I will break your soul. If you run, I will hunt you. Retreat will be impossible. There will be no forgiveness. I will not allow you to surrender. I’ll make you beg for the days of torture you enjoyed under The Reestablishment—”
The sudden slam of a door returns me violently to myself. I turn toward the source of the sound to find that someone new has entered the house: a tall man in glasses.
He’s framed in the entrance.
Nazeera reappears, having disappeared into the bedroom she claimed was mine. She shoots me an exasperated look and says, “What the hell? I thought you were trying to leave.” She looks me up and down. “But you haven’t even moved, have you?”
The door slams again, this time slamming shut, and Nazeera realizes, too late, that there’s someone else in her house. Common sense would dictate that she be more concerned with an intruder entering her home, but for reasons unknown, this fact doesn’t appear to alarm her.
She’s too cavalier.
I might’ve made a run for the door in her absence. I might’ve grabbed the screwdriver—
“Hey,” says the intruder, lifting a hand.
He’s not armed.
In fact, he looks like the kind of person who’s perpetually annoyed to be awake. He’s wearing a slouchy sweater, a pair of thoroughly worn jeans, and battered sneakers. His sandy-blond hair is unkempt. His dark frames are crooked.
