and this day, of these
words leaving my lips and this body that contains me.
I notice he’s wearing a white button-down, half untucked into his curiously unrumpled
black slacks. His shirtsleeves are folded, pushed up past his elbows.
His smile looks like it hurts.
I pull myself into a seated position and Warner shifts to accommodate me. I have to
close my eyes to steady the sudden dizziness, but I force myself to remain still until
the feeling passes.
I’m tired and weak from hunger, but other than a few general aches, I seem to be fine.
I’m alive. I’m breathing and blinking and feeling human and I know exactly why.
I meet his eyes. “You saved my life.”
I was shot in the chest.
Warner’s father put a bullet in my body and I can still feel the echoes of it. If
I focus, I can relive the exact moment it happened; the pain: so intense, so excruciating;
I’ll never be able to forget it.
I suck in a startled breath.
I’m finally aware of the familiar foreignness of this room and I’m quickly seized
by a panic that screams I did not wake up where I fell asleep. My heart is racing
and I’m inching away from him, hitting my back against the headboard, clutching at
these sheets, trying not to stare at the chandelier I remember all too well—
“It’s okay—” Warner is saying. “It’s all right—”
“What am I doing here?” Panic, panic; terror clouds my consciousness. “Why did you
bring me here again—?”
“Juliette, please, I’m not going to hurt you—”
“Then why did you bring me here?” My voice is starting to break and I’m struggling
to keep it steady. “Why bring me back to this hellhole —”
“I had to hide you.” He exhales, looks up at the wall.
“What? Why?”
“No one knows you’re alive.” He turns to look at me. “I had to get back to base. I
needed to pretend everything was back to normal and I was running out of time.”
I force myself to lock away the fear.
I study his face and analyze his patient, earnest tone. I remember him last night—it
must’ve been last night—I remember his face, remember him lying next to me in the
dark. He was tender and kind and gentle and he saved me, saved my life. Probably carried
me into bed. Tucked me in beside him. It must’ve been him.
But when I glance down at my body I realize I’m wearing clean clothes, no blood or
holes or anything anywhere and I wonder who washed me, wonder who changed me, and
worry that might’ve been Warner, too.
“Did you . . .” I hesitate, touching the hem of the shirt I’m wearing. “Did—I mean—my
clothes—”
He smiles. He stares until I’m blushing and I decide I hate him a little and then
he shakes his head. Looks into his palms. “No,” he says. “The girls took care of that.
I just carried you to bed.”
“The girls,” I whisper, dazed.
The girls.
Sonya and Sara. They were there too, the healer twins, they helped Warner. They helped
him save me because he’s the only one who can touch me now, the only person in the
world who’d have been able to transfer their healing power safely into my body.
My thoughts are on fire.
Where are the girls what happened to the girls and where is Anderson and the war and
oh God what’s happened to Adam and Kenji and Castle and I have to get up I have to get up I have to get up and get out of bed and get
going
but
I try to move and Warner catches me. I’m off-balance, unsteady; I still feel as though
my legs are anchored to this bed and I’m suddenly unable to breathe, seeing spots
and feeling faint. Need up. Need out.
Can’t.
“Warner.” My eyes are frantic on his face. “What happened? What’s happening with the
battle—?”
“Please,” he says, gripping my shoulders. “You need to start slowly; you should eat
something—”
“Tell me—”
“Don’t you want to eat first? Or shower?”
“No,” I hear myself say. “I have to know now.”
One
words leaving my lips and this body that contains me.
I notice he’s wearing a white button-down, half untucked into his curiously unrumpled
black slacks. His shirtsleeves are folded, pushed up past his elbows.
His smile looks like it hurts.
I pull myself into a seated position and Warner shifts to accommodate me. I have to
close my eyes to steady the sudden dizziness, but I force myself to remain still until
the feeling passes.
I’m tired and weak from hunger, but other than a few general aches, I seem to be fine.
I’m alive. I’m breathing and blinking and feeling human and I know exactly why.
I meet his eyes. “You saved my life.”
I was shot in the chest.
Warner’s father put a bullet in my body and I can still feel the echoes of it. If
I focus, I can relive the exact moment it happened; the pain: so intense, so excruciating;
I’ll never be able to forget it.
I suck in a startled breath.
I’m finally aware of the familiar foreignness of this room and I’m quickly seized
by a panic that screams I did not wake up where I fell asleep. My heart is racing
and I’m inching away from him, hitting my back against the headboard, clutching at
these sheets, trying not to stare at the chandelier I remember all too well—
“It’s okay—” Warner is saying. “It’s all right—”
“What am I doing here?” Panic, panic; terror clouds my consciousness. “Why did you
bring me here again—?”
“Juliette, please, I’m not going to hurt you—”
“Then why did you bring me here?” My voice is starting to break and I’m struggling
to keep it steady. “Why bring me back to this hellhole —”
“I had to hide you.” He exhales, looks up at the wall.
“What? Why?”
“No one knows you’re alive.” He turns to look at me. “I had to get back to base. I
needed to pretend everything was back to normal and I was running out of time.”
I force myself to lock away the fear.
I study his face and analyze his patient, earnest tone. I remember him last night—it
must’ve been last night—I remember his face, remember him lying next to me in the
dark. He was tender and kind and gentle and he saved me, saved my life. Probably carried
me into bed. Tucked me in beside him. It must’ve been him.
But when I glance down at my body I realize I’m wearing clean clothes, no blood or
holes or anything anywhere and I wonder who washed me, wonder who changed me, and
worry that might’ve been Warner, too.
“Did you . . .” I hesitate, touching the hem of the shirt I’m wearing. “Did—I mean—my
clothes—”
He smiles. He stares until I’m blushing and I decide I hate him a little and then
he shakes his head. Looks into his palms. “No,” he says. “The girls took care of that.
I just carried you to bed.”
“The girls,” I whisper, dazed.
The girls.
Sonya and Sara. They were there too, the healer twins, they helped Warner. They helped
him save me because he’s the only one who can touch me now, the only person in the
world who’d have been able to transfer their healing power safely into my body.
My thoughts are on fire.
Where are the girls what happened to the girls and where is Anderson and the war and
oh God what’s happened to Adam and Kenji and Castle and I have to get up I have to get up I have to get up and get out of bed and get
going
but
I try to move and Warner catches me. I’m off-balance, unsteady; I still feel as though
my legs are anchored to this bed and I’m suddenly unable to breathe, seeing spots
and feeling faint. Need up. Need out.
Can’t.
“Warner.” My eyes are frantic on his face. “What happened? What’s happening with the
battle—?”
“Please,” he says, gripping my shoulders. “You need to start slowly; you should eat
something—”
“Tell me—”
“Don’t you want to eat first? Or shower?”
“No,” I hear myself say. “I have to know now.”
One
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