Imagine Me (Shatter Me #6)(48)

I take in a deep, fortifying breath.

I focus on Anderson’s retreating figure. For reasons I can’t explain, staring at him steadies me. Slows my pulse. Settles my stomach. And from this vantage point, I can’t help but admire the way he moves. He has an impressive, muscular frame—broad shoulders, narrow waist, strong legs—but I marvel most at the way he carries himself. He has a confident stride. He walks tall, with smooth, effortless efficiency. As I watch him, a familiar feeling flutters through me. It gathers in my stomach, sparking dim heat that sends a brief shock to my heart.

I don’t fight it.

There’s something about him. Something about his face. His carriage. I find myself moving unconsciously closer to him, watching him almost too intently. I’ve noticed that he wears no jewelry, not even a watch. He has a faded scar between his right thumb and index finger. His hands are rough and callused. His dark hair is shot through with silver, the extent of which is only visible up close. His eyes are the blue-green of shallow, turquoise waters. Unusual.

Aquamarine.

He has long brown lashes and laugh lines. Full, curving lips. His skin grows rougher as the day wears on, the shadow of facial hair hinting at a version of him I try and fail to imagine.

I realize I’m beginning to like him. Trust him.

Suddenly, he stops. We’re standing outside a steel door, next to which is a keypad and biometric scanner.

He brings his wrist to his mouth. “Yes.” A pause. “I’m outside.”

I feel my own wrist vibrate. I look down, surprised, at the blue light flashing through the skin at my pulse.

I’m being summoned.

This is strange. Anderson is standing right next to me; I thought he was the only one with the authority to summon me.

“Sir?” I say.

He glances back, his eyebrows raised as if to say— Yes? And something that feels like happiness blooms to life inside of me. I know it’s unwise to make so much of so little, but his movements and expressions feel suddenly softer now, more casual. It’s clear that he’s begun to trust me, too.

I lift my wrist to show him the message. He frowns.

He steps closer to me, taking my flashing arm in his hands. The tips of his fingers press against my skin as he gently bends back the joint, his eyes narrowing as he studies the summons. I go unnaturally still. He makes a sound of irritation and exhales, his breath skittering across my skin.

A bolt of sensation moves through me.

He’s still holding my arm when he speaks into his own wrist. “Tell Ibrahim to back off. I have it under control.”

In the silence, Anderson tilts his head, listening on an earpiece that isn’t readily visible. I can only watch. Wait.

“I don’t care,” he says angrily, his fingers closing unconsciously around my wrist. I gasp, surprised, and he turns, our eyes meeting, clashing.

Anderson frowns.

His pleasant, masculine scent fills my head and I breathe him in almost without meaning to. Being this close to him is difficult. Strange. My head is swimming with confusion.

Broken images flood my mind—a flash of golden hair, fingers grazing bare skin—and then nausea. Dizziness.

It nearly knocks me over.

I look away just as Anderson tugs my arm up, toward a floodlight, squinting to get a better look. Our bodies nearly touch, and I’m suddenly so close I can see the edges of a tattoo, dark and curving, creeping up the edge of his collarbone.

My eyes widen in surprise. Anderson lets go of my wrist.

“I already know it was him,” he says, speaking quickly, his eyes darting at and away from me. “His code is in the timestamp.” A pause. “Just clear the summons. And then remind him that she reports only to me. I decide if and when he gets to talk to her.”

He drops his wrist. Touches a finger to his temple.

And then, narrows his eyes at me.

My heart jumps. I straighten. I no longer wait to be prompted. When he looks at me like that, I know it’s my cue to confess.

“You have a tattoo, sir. I was surprised. I wondered what it was.”

Anderson raises an eyebrow at me.

He seems about to speak when, finally, the steel door exhales open. A curl of steam escapes the doorway, behind which emerges a man. He’s tall, taller than Anderson, with wavy brown hair, light brown skin, and light, bright eyes the color of which aren’t immediately obvious. He wears a white lab coat. Tall rubber boots. A face mask hangs around his neck, and a dozen pens have been shoved into the pocket of his coat. He makes no effort to move forward or to step aside; he only stands in the doorway, seemingly undecided.

“What’s going on?” Anderson says. “I sent you a message an hour ago and you never showed up. Then I come to your door and you make me wait.”

The man—Anderson told me his name was Max—says nothing. Instead, he appraises me, his eyes moving up and down my body in a show of undisguised hatred. I’m not sure how to process his reaction.

Anderson sighs, grasping something that isn’t obvious to me.

“Max,” he says quietly. “You can’t be serious.”

Max shoots Anderson a sharp look. “Unlike you, we’re not all made of stone.” And then, looking away: “At least not entirely.”

I’m surprised to discover that Max has an accent, one not unlike the citizens of Oceania. Max must originate from this region.