Imagine Me (Shatter Me #6)(28)

Except that Anderson doesn’t appear to be drunk at the moment. No. This is pure, unadulterated anger.

Anderson seems to have lost his mind.

He doesn’t just want to shoot Warner. He doesn’t want someone else to shoot Warner. He wants to beat him to a pulp. He wants physical satisfaction. He wants to break bones and rupture organs with his own hands. Anderson wants the pleasure of knowing that he and he alone was able to destroy his own son.

But Warner isn’t giving him that satisfaction.

He meets Anderson blow for blow in fluid, precise movements, ducking and sidestepping and twisting and defending. He never misses a beat.

It’s almost like he can read Anderson’s mind.

I’m not the only one who’s stunned. I’ve never seen Warner move like this, and I almost can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. I feel a sudden, unbidden surge of respect for him as I watch him block attack after attack. I keep waiting for him to knock the dude out, but Warner makes no effort to hit Anderson; he only defends. And only when I see the increasing fury on Anderson’s face do I realize that Warner is doing this on purpose.

He’s not fighting back because he knows it’s what Anderson wants. The cool, emotionless expression on Warner’s face is driving Anderson insane. And the more he fails to rattle his son, the more enraged Anderson gets. Blood still trickles, slowly, from the half-healed wound on his neck when he cries out, angrily, and pulls free a gun from inside his jacket pocket.

“Enough,” he shouts. “That is enough.”

Warner takes a careful step back.

“Give me the girl, Aaron. Give me the girl and I will spare the rest of these idiots. I only want the girl.”

Warner is an immovable object.

“Fine,” Anderson says angrily. “Seize him.”

Six supreme guards begin advancing on Warner, and he doesn’t so much as flinch. I exchange glances with Winston and it’s enough; I throw my invisibility over Winston just as he throws his arms out, his ability to stretch his limbs knocking three of them to the ground. In the same moment, Haider pulls a machete from somewhere inside the bloodied chain mail he’s wearing under his coat, and tosses it to Warner, who drops the machine gun and catches the blade by the hilt without even looking.

A fucking machete.

Castle is on his knees, arms toward the sky as he breaks off more pieces of the half-devastated building, but this time Anderson’s men don’t give him the chance. I run forward, too late to help as Castle is knocked out from behind, and still I throw myself into the fight, battling for ownership of the soldier’s gun with skills I developed as a teenager: a single, solid punch to the nose. A clean uppercut. A hard kick to the chest. A good old-fashioned strangulation.

I look up, gasping for breath, hoping for good news—

And do a double take.

Ten men have closed in on Warner, and I don’t understand where they came from. I thought we were down to three or four. I spin around, confused, turning back just in time to watch Warner drop to one knee and swing up with the machete in a sudden, perfect arc, gutting the man like a fish. Warner turns, another strong swing slicing through the guy on his left, disconnecting the dude’s spine in a move so horrific I have to look away. In the second it takes me to turn back, another guard has already charged forward. Warner pivots sharply, shoving the blade directly up the guy’s throat and into his open, screaming mouth. With a final tug, Warner pulls the blade free, and the man falls to the ground with a single, soft thud.

The remaining members of the Supreme Guard hesitate.

I realize then, that—whoever these new soldiers are—they’ve been given specific orders to attack Warner, and no one else. The rest of us are suddenly without an obvious task, free to sink into the ground, disappear into exhaustion.

Tempting.

I search for Castle, wanting to make sure he’s okay, and realize he looks stricken.

He’s staring at Warner.

Warner, who’s staring at the blood pooling beneath his feet, his chest heaving, his fist still clenched around the shank of the machete. All this time, Castle really thought Warner was just a nice boy who’d made some simple mistakes. The kind of kid he could bring back from the brink.

Not today.

Warner looks up at his father, his face more blood than skin, his body shaking with rage.

“Is this what you wanted?” he cries.

But even Anderson seems surprised.

Another guard moves forward so silently I don’t even see the gun he’s aimed in Warner’s direction until the soldier screams and collapses to the ground. His eyes bulge as he clutches at his throat, where a shard of glass the size of my hand is caught in his jugular.

I whip my head around to face Warner. He’s still staring at Anderson, but his free hand is now dripping blood.

Jesus Christ.

“Take me, instead,” Warner says, his voice piercing the quiet.

Anderson seems to come back to himself. “What?”

“Leave her. Leave them all. Give me your word that you will leave her alone, and I will come back with you.”

I go suddenly still. And then I look around, eyes wild, for any indication that we’re going to stop this idiot from doing something reckless, but no one meets my eyes. Everyone is riveted.

Terrified.

But when I feel a familiar presence suddenly materialize beside me, relief floods through my body. I reach for her hand at the same time she reaches for mine, squeezing her fingers once before breaking the brief connection. Right now, it’s enough to know she’s here, standing next to me.