“You have no idea how to build a nest,” he says, backing closer to the door. “You don’t know how to arrange a room around a rug, or use paint color to soothe instead of injure. Quick quiz: Do any of these words sound familiar to you?Sconce.Credenza.Console table.Ambience.Étagère—”
“Now you’re just trying to make me feel bad.”
He nods, glancing at the door. “Is it working?”
“How can you be so pretentious when I’m literally asking for help?”
“I don’t have time to be your mentor, Nazeera. Call James.”
“I willnotcall James—”
“Get over your pride. He’s surprisingly good at this stuff, and he’s obviously obsessed with the serial killer—”
“My name is Rosabelle,” I say sharply.
Nazeera and Winston freeze. They turn in tandem to face me, shock printed upon both their faces.
“Weird,” says Winston. “I almost forgot she was here.”
Nazeera stares. “That’s actually the first time she’s said anything since she got here.”
The door slams open again.
This time, the shift is palpable. I sense him before I see him, the veils between myself and the world thinning nearly at once. My heart picks up as James walks through the door, and I understand then, with a clarity I’ve never felt before, that being near him is worse than dangerous.
Being near him will get me killed.
I take a terrified step back as he enters, his eyes finding mine immediately. Desperate fear and wild, unbridled joy suffuse my body, confusing me, sending me into a panic. He walks into the kitchen, slams something down on the counter, and heads in my direction with electric focus.
I suddenly can’t breathe.
“Whoa, James—”
Nazeera steps in front of him, as if to stop him, and he’s close enough now that I can practically see how hard he’s working to tamp down a sparking, volatile energy, his chest lifting as he looks at her, then looks at me.
“Nazeera,” he says quietly. “You know I love you. But get out of my way.”
“What—why? What’s happening? Who are you right now?”
James shakes his head, then sidesteps her quickly enough that she’s still trying to catch up as he closes the distance between us, charging toward me with renewed purpose.
I feel the floor shift beneath me.
Somehow I’m rooted here, still standing, my heart beating out of my chest. I don’t know why he’s here. I can’t make sense of the look on his face. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or terrified or—
He pulls me into his arms on a shaky breath, exhaling hard as our bodies collide.
I make an aching, involuntary sound.
The warmth and strength of him closes around me, the scent of him flooding my head as he braces me against his chest. My dead senses flare dangerously back to life.
I sink into him.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
There’s nothing left to protect me from this.
The scaffolding falls away from my spirit; my body comes undone. In his arms I release myself from my many prisons into the abyss of my own fears and he catches me, holding me closer, tighter, his breath warm against my hair. I feel too much of my heart. I feel too much of my soul. I’m suddenly shaking and starving. Aching.
