Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2 Page 22

  He is very, very angry.

  Crap.

  “I’m sorry about the hallway,” I tell him, “I didn’t—”

  “We can discuss your public and wildly inappropriate displays of affection at a later time, Ms. Ferrars, but right now I have a very important question to ask you and I would advise you to be honest, as acutely honest as is physically possible.”

  “What”—I can hardly breathe—“what is it?”

  Castle narrows his eyes at me. “I have just had a conversation with Warner, who says he is able to touch you without consequence, and that this information is something you are well aware of.”

  And I think, Wow, I did it. I actually managed to die of a stroke at age 17.

  “I need to know,” Castle hurries on, “whether or not this information is true and I need to know right now.”

  There’s glue all over my tongue, stuck to my teeth, my lips, the roof of my mouth, and I can’t speak, I can’t move, I’m pretty sure I just had a seizure or an aneurysm or heart failure or something equally as awful but I can’t explain any of this to Castle because I can’t move my jaw even an inch.

  “Ms. Ferrars. I don’t think you understand how important this question is. I need an answer from you, and I need it thirty seconds ago.”

  “I . . . I—”

  “Today, I need an answer today, right now, this very moment—”

  “Yes,” I choke out, blushing through my skull, horribly ashamed, embarrassed, horrified in every possible way and the only thing I can think of is Adam Adam Adam how will Adam respond to this information now, why does this have to happen now, why did Warner say anything at all and I want to kill him for sharing the secret that was mine to tell, mine to hide, mine to hoard.

  Castle looks like he’s a balloon that fell in love with a pushpin that got too close and ruined him forever. “So it’s true, then?”

  I drop my eyes. “Yes, it’s true.”

  He falls to the floor right across from me, astonished. “How is it even possible, do you think?”

  Because Warner is Adam’s brother, I don’t tell him.

  And I don’t tell him because it is Adam’s secret to tell and I will not talk about it until he does, even though I desperately want to tell Castle that the connection must be in their blood, that they both must share a similar kind of gift or Energy, or oh oh oh

  Oh God.

  Oh no.

  Warner is one of us.

  FORTY-NINE

  “It changes everything.”

  Castle isn’t even looking at me. “This—I mean—this means so many things,” he says. “We’ll have to tell him everything and we’ll have to test him to be sure, but I’m fairly positive it’s the only explanation. And he would be welcome to take refuge here if he wanted it—I would have to give him a regular room, allow him to live among us as an equal. I cannot keep him here as a prisoner, at the very least—”

  “What—but, Castle—why? He’s the one who almost killed Adam! And Kenji!”

  “You have to understand—this news might change his entire outlook on life.” Castle is shaking his head, one hand almost covering his mouth, his eyes wide. “He might not take it well—he might be thrilled—he might lose his mind completely—he might wake up a new man in the morning. You would be surprised what these kinds of revelations will do to people.

  “Omega Point will always be a place of refuge for our kind,” he continues. “It’s an oath I made to myself many years ago. I cannot deny him food and shelter if, for example, his father were to cast him out entirely.”

  This can’t be happening.

  “But I don’t understand,” Castle says suddenly, looking up at me. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why not report this information? This is important for us to know and it doesn’t condemn you in any way—”

  “I didn’t want Adam to know,” I admit out loud for the first time, my voice 6 broken bits of shame strung together. “I just . . .” I shake my head. “I didn’t want him to know.”

  Castle actually looks sad for me. He says, “I wish I could help you keep your secret, Ms. Ferrars, but even if I wanted to, I’m not sure Warner will.”

  I focus on the mats laid out on the floor. My voice sounds tiny when I ask, “Why did he even tell you? How did that even come up in conversation?”

  Castle rubs his chin, thoughtful. “He told me of his own accord. I volunteered to take him on his daily rounds— walking him to the restroom, et cetera—because I wanted to follow up and ask him questions about his father and see what he knew about the state of our hostages. He seemed perfectly fine. In fact, he looked much better than he was when he first showed up. He was compliant, almost polite. But his attitude changed rather dramatically after we stumbled upon you and Adam in the hall. . . .” His voice trails off, his eyes snap up, his mind working quickly to fit all the pieces together and he’s gaping at me, staring at me in a way that is entirely foreign to Castle, in a way that says he is utterly, absolutely baffled.

  I’m not sure if I should be offended.

  “He’s in love with you,” Castle whispers, a dawning, groundbreaking realization in his voice. He laughs, once, hard, fast. Shakes his head. “He held you captive and managed to fall in love with you in the process.”

  I’m staring at the mats like they’re the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “Oh, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says to me. “I do not envy you your predicament. I can see now why this situation must be uncomfortable for you.”

  I want to say to him, You have no idea, Castle. You have no idea because you don’t even know the entire story. You don’t know that they’re brothers, brothers who hate each other, brothers who only seem to agree on one thing, and that one thing happens to be killing their own father.

  But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t say anything, in fact.

  I sit on these mats with my head in my hands and I’m trying to figure out what else could possibly go wrong. I’m wondering how many more mistakes I’ll have to make before things finally fall into place.

  If they ever will.

  FIFTY

  I’m so humiliated.

  I’ve been thinking about this all night and I came to a realization this morning. Warner must’ve told Castle on purpose. Because he’s playing games with me, because he hasn’t changed, because he’s still trying to get me to do his bidding. He’s still trying to get me to be his project and he’s trying to hurt me.

  I won’t allow it.

  I will not allow Warner to lie to me, to manipulate my emotions to get what he wants. I can’t believe I felt pity for him—that I felt weakness, tenderness for him when I saw him with his father—that I believed him when he told me his thoughts about my journal. I’m such a gullible fool.

  I was an idiot to ever think he might be capable of human emotion.

  I told Castle that maybe he should put someone else on this assignment now that he knows Warner can touch me; I told him it might be dangerous now. But he laughed and he laughed and he laughed and he said, “Oh, Ms. Ferrars, I’m quite, quite certain you will be able to defend yourself. In fact, you’re probably much better equipped against him than any of us. Besides,” he added, “this is an ideal situation. If he truly is in love with you, you must be able to use that to our advantage somehow. We need your help,” he said to me, serious again. “We need all the help we can find, and right now you’re the one person who might be able to get the answers we need. Please,” he said. “Try to find out anything you can. Anything at all. Winston and Brendan’s lives are at risk.”

  And he’s right.

  So I’m shoving my own concerns aside because Winston and Brendan are out there, hurting somewhere, and we need to find them. And I’m going to do whatever I can to help.

  Which means I have to talk to Warner again.

  I have to treat him just like the prisoner that he is. No more side conversations. No falling for his efforts to confuse me. Not again and again
and again. I’m going to be better. Smarter.

  And I want my notebook back.

  The guards are unlocking his room for me and I’m marching in, I’m sealing the door shut behind me and I’m getting ready to give him the speech I’ve already prepared when I stop in place.

  I don’t know what I was expecting.

  Maybe I thought I’d catch him trying to break a hole in the wall or maybe he’d be plotting the demise of every person at Omega Point or I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know anything because I only know how to fight an angry body, an insolent creature, an arrogant monster, and I do not know what to do with this.

  He’s sleeping.

  Someone put a mattress in here, a simple rectangle of average quality, thin and worn but better than the ground, at least, and he’s lying on top of it in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.

  His clothes are on the floor.

  His pants, his shirts, his socks are slightly damp, wrinkled, obviously hand-washed and laid out to dry; his coat is folded neatly over his boots, and his gloves are resting right next to each other on top of his coat.

  He hasn’t moved an inch since I stepped into this room.

  He’s resting on his side, his back to the wall, his left arm tucked under his face, his right arm against his torso, his entire body perfect bare, strong, smooth, and smelling faintly of soap. I don’t know why I can’t stop staring at him. I don’t know what it is about sleep that makes our faces appear so soft and innocent, so peaceful and vulnerable, but I’m trying to look away and I can’t. I’m losing sight of my own purpose, forgetting all the brave things I said to myself before I stepped in here. Because there’s something about him—there’s always been something about him that’s intrigued me and I don’t understand it. I wish I could ignore it but I can’t.

  Because I look at him and wonder if maybe it’s just me? Maybe I’m naive?

  But I see layers, shades of gold and green and a person who’s never been given a chance to be human and I wonder if I’m just as cruel as my own oppressors if I decide that society is right, that some people are too far gone, that sometimes you can’t turn back, that there are people in this world who don’t deserve a second chance and I can’t I can’t I can’t

  I can’t help but disagree.

  I can’t help but think that 19 is too young to give up on someone, that 19 years old is just the beginning, that it’s too soon to tell anyone they will never amount to anything but evil in this world.

  I can’t help but wonder what my life would’ve been like if someone had taken a chance on me.

  So I back away. I turn to leave.

  I let him sleep.

  I stop in place.

  I catch a glimpse of my notebook lying on the mattress next to his outstretched hand, his fingers looking as if they’ve only just let go. It’s the perfect opportunity to steal it back if I can be stealthy enough.

  I tiptoe forward, forever grateful that these boots I wear are designed to make no sound at all. But the closer I inch toward his body, the more my attention is caught by something on his back.

  A little rectangular blur of black.

  I creep closer.

  Blink.

  Squint.

  Lean in.

  It’s a tattoo.

  No pictures. Just 1 word. 1 word, typed into the very center of his upper back. In ink.

  IGNITE

  And his skin is shredded with scars.

  Blood is rushing to my head so quickly I’m beginning to feel faint. I feel sick. Like I might actually, truly upturn the contents of my stomach right now. I want to panic, I want to shake someone, I want to know how to understand the emotions choking me because I can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine, can’t even imagine what he must’ve endured to carry such suffering on his skin.

  His entire back is a map of pain.

  Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that lead to nowhere. They’re gashes and ragged slices I can’t understand, marks of torture I never could have expected. They’re the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.

  And I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea who Warner really is.

  “Juliette?”

  I freeze.

  “What are you doing here?” His eyes are wide, alert.

  “I—I came to talk to you—”

  “Jesus,” he gasps, jumping away from me. “I’m very flattered, love, but you could’ve at least given me a chance to put my pants on.” He’s pulled himself up against the wall but makes no effort to grab his clothes. His eyes keep darting from me to the pants on the floor like he doesn’t know what to do. He seems determined not to turn his back to me.

  “Would you mind?” he says, nodding to the clothes next to my feet and affecting an air of nonchalance that does little to hide the apprehension in his eyes. “It gets chilly in here.”

  But I’m staring at him, staring at the length of him, awed by how incredibly flawless he looks from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He’s fair without being pale, skin tinted with just enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect boy.

  What a lie appearances can be.

  What a terrible, terrible lie.

  His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast.

  “What happened to your back?” I hear myself whisper.

  I watch as the color drains from his face. He looks away, runs a hand across his mouth, his chin, down the back of his neck.

  “Who hurt you?” I ask, so quietly. I’m beginning to recognize the strange feeling I get just before I do something terrible. Like right now. Right now I feel like I could kill someone for this.

  “Juliette, please, my clothes—”

  “Was it your father?” I ask, my voice a little sharper. “Did he do this to you—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Warner cuts me off, frustrated now.

  “Of course it matters!”

  He says nothing.

  “That tattoo,” I say to him, “that word—”

  “Yes,” he says, though he says it quietly. Clears his throat.

  “I don’t . . .” I blink. “What does it mean?”

  Warner shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair.

  “Is it from a book?”

  “Why do you care?” he asks, looking away again. “Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?”

  I don’t know, I want to tell him. I want to tell him I don’t know but that’s not true.

  Because I feel it. I feel the clicks and the turns and the creaking of a million keys unlocking a million doors in my mind. It’s like I’m finally allowing myself to see what I really think, how I really feel, like I’m discovering my own secrets for the first time. And then I search his eyes, search his features for something I can’t even name. And I realize I don’t want to be his enemy anymore.

  “It’s over,” I say to him. “I’m not on base with you this time. I’m not going to be your weapon and you’ll never be able to change my mind about that. I think you know that now.” I study the floor. “So why are we still fighting each other? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?”

  “I have no idea,” he says, looking at me like he’s not sure I’m even real, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Why did you tell Castle you could touch me? That wasn’t your secret to share.”

  “Right.” He exhales a deep breath. “Of course.” Seems to return to himself. “Listen, love, could you at least toss me my jacket if you’re going to stay here and ask me all these questions?”

  I toss him his jacket. He catches it. Slides down to the floor. And instead of putting his jacket on, he drapes it over his lap. Finally, he says, “Yes, I did tell Castle I could touch you. He had a right to know.”


  “That wasn’t any of his business.”

  “Of course it’s his business,” Warner says. “The entire world he’s created down here thrives on exactly that kind of information. And you’re here, living among them. He should know.”

  “He doesn’t need to know.”

  “Why is it such a big deal?” he asks, studying my eyes too carefully. “Why does it bother you so much for someone to know that I can touch you? Why does it have to be a secret?”

  I struggle to find the words that won’t come.

  “Are you worried about Kent? You think he’d have a problem knowing I can touch you?”

  “I didn’t want him to find out like this—”

  “But why does it matter?” he insists. “You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your personal life. It wouldn’t,” he says, “make any difference in your personal life. Not if you still claim to feel nothing but hatred for me. Because that’s what you said, isn’t it? That you hate me?”

  I fold myself to the floor across from Warner. Pull my knees up to my chest. Focus on the stone under my feet. “I don’t hate you.”

  Warner seems to stop breathing.

  “I think I understand you sometimes,” I tell him. “I really do. But just when I think I finally get you, you surprise me. And I never really know who you are or who you’re going to be.” I look up. “But I know that I don’t hate you anymore. I’ve tried,” I say, “I’ve tried so hard. Because you’ve done so many terrible, terrible things. To innocent people. To me. But I know too much about you now. I’ve seen too much. You’re too human.”

  His hair is so gold. His eyes so green. His voice is tortured when he speaks. “Are you saying,” he says, “that you want to be my friend?”

  “I-I don’t know.” I’m so petrified, so, so petrified of this possibility. “I didn’t think about that. I’m just saying that I don’t know”—I hesitate, breathe—“I don’t know how to hate you anymore. Even though I want to. I really want to and I know I should but I just can’t.”