"Kane! Look over here!"
A strobe-light effect ignited.Flash. Flash. Flash.Blinding white bursts that seared my vision, turning the grey afternoon into a violently high-contrast nightmare.
I froze. My feet glued themselves to the floorboards. The smell of stale popcorn ghosted into my nose.
"Eyes on me," Anders roared.
He stepped in front of me. He didn't duck. He didn't shield his face. He straightened his shirt with a casual, arrogant disdain, blocking the center angle completely. He was a wall of golden-haired rage.
"Move," Anders commanded.
He stepped out into the rain.
I moved. I had no choice. Daniel’s large hand was flat between my shoulder blades, propelling me forward.
We stepped onto the wet stone of the porch.
"Get the shot! Get the face!"
A photographer lunged from the side, trying to bypass Anders’ shoulder to get a clear angle on me.
"Back off!" a voice snarled from the left.
Simon.
He appeared out of the rain like a wraith. He had abandoned the livestream. He slammed into the photographer, using his shoulder to check the man backward. He didn't apologize. He stood his ground, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his hands, those precious, ink-stained hands, curled into fists.
"Formation!" Anders barked.
They closed ranks.
It was instantaneous and instinctive.
Anders was the prow of the ship, cutting through the sea of lenses. He walked with a lethal, predatory grace, shoving a microphone out of his face without breaking stride.
Simon fell in on my left flank. He was manic, kinetic energy, his head on a swivel. He made himself wide, using his elbows, hisbody, his very presence to block the sightlines. His scent of burnt sugar and graphite was sharp, acrid with protective fury. He was shouting things I couldn't hear, snarling at anyone who dared to lift a lens.
Daniel was the fortress behind me. He was so close that every time I took a step, my heel brushed the toe of his boot. His massive presence blocked out the sky, the drones, the world behind me. He emanated a low, continuous rumble in his chest, a sub-vocal growl that vibrated against my spine.
I was in the center. The soft, beating heart of the machine.
"Keep walking," Anders yelled over the din. "Don't look at them. Look at my back."
I fixed my eyes on his wet shirt. I focused on the seam running down the center.
Flash. Flash.
"Tessa! Did you fake the heat?"
"Why did you hide?"
"Is it true you're on stabilizers?"
The questions were hooks, barbed and cruel, trying to snag a reaction. Trying to get me to cry. Trying to get me to cover my face so they could capture the shame.
I wanted to cover my face. My hands twitched, desperate to fly up and shield myself.
"Don't," Simon said, appearing in my peripheral vision. He grabbed my left hand, interlacing his fingers with mine. His grip was bone-crushing. "Don't give them the shame, Tess. Give them nothing."
