Restore Me (Shatter Me #4)(48)

“No—”

It’s the first thing Warner’s said since I woke up, and he nearly shouts the word at me. He’s holding up his hands in a silent plea.

“No, love,” he says, sounding strange. “You can’t go outside again. Not—not just yet. Please.”

The look on his face is enough to break my heart.

I slow down, feel my racing pulse steady as I stare at him. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I scared everyone. It was a moment of stupidity and it was totally my fault. I let my guard down for just a second.” I sigh. “I think someone had been watching me, waiting for the right moment. Either way, it won’t happen again.”

I try to smile, and he doesn’t budge. Won’t smile back.

“Really,” I try again. “Don’t worry. I should’ve realized there would be people out there waiting to kill me the moment I seemed vulnerable, but”—I laugh—“believe me, I’ll be more careful next time. I’ll even ask to have a larger guard follow me around.”

He shakes his head.

I study him, his terror. I don’t understand it.

I make an effort to get to my feet. I’m in socks and a hospital gown, and Sonya and Sara hurry me into a robe and slippers. I thank them for everything they’ve done and they squeeze my hands.

“We’ll be right outside if you need anything,” they say in unison.

“Thank you again,” I say, and smile. “I’ll let you know how it goes with the, um”—I point to my head—“weird visions.”

They nod and disappear.

I take a tentative step toward Warner.

“Hey,” I say gently. “I’m going to be okay. Really.”

“You could’ve been killed.”

“I know,” I say. “I’ve been so off lately—I wasn’t thinking. But this was a mistake I will never make again.” A short laugh. “Really.”

Finally, he sighs. He releases the tension in his shoulders. Runs a hand along the length of his face, the back of his neck.

I’ve never seen him like this before.

“I’m so sorry I scared you,” I say.

“Please don’t apologize to me, love. You don’t have to worry about me,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve been worried about you. How are you feeling?”

“Other than the hallucinating, you mean?” I crack a half grin. “I feel okay. It took me a minute to come back to myself this morning, but I feel much better now. I’m sure the strange visions will be gone soon, too.” I smile, wide, more for his benefit than mine. “Anyway, Delalieu wants me to meet with him ASAP to talk about my speech for the symposium, so I’m thinking maybe I should go do that. I can’t believe it’s happening tomorrow.” I shake my head. “I can’t afford to waste any more time. Although”—I look down at myself—“maybe I should take a shower first? Put on some real clothes?”

I try to smile at him again, to convince him that I’m feeling fine, but he seems unable to speak. He just looks at me, his eyes red-rimmed and raw. If I didn’t know him any better I’d think he’d been crying.

I’m just about to ask him what’s wrong, when he says

“Sweetheart.”

and for some reason I hold my breath.

“I have to talk to you,” he says.

He whispers it, actually.

“Okay,” I say, and exhale. “Talk to me.”

“Not here.”

I feel my stomach flip. My instincts tell me to panic. “Is everything okay?”

It takes him a long time to say, “I don’t know.”

I stare at him, confused.

He stares back, his eyes such a pale green in the light that, for a moment, he doesn’t even seem human. He says nothing more.

I take a deep breath. Try to be calm. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. But if we’re going to go back to the room, can I at least shower first? I’d really like to get all this sand and dried blood off my body.”

He nods. Still no emotion.

And now I’m really beginning to panic.





WARNER





I’m pacing the length of the hall just outside of our room, impatiently waiting for Juliette to finish her shower. My mind is ravaged. Hysteria has been clawing at my insides for hours. I have no idea what she’ll say to me. How she’ll react to what I need to tell her. And I’m so horrified by what I’m about to do that I don’t even hear someone calling my name until they’ve touched me.

I spin around too fast, my reflexes faster than even my mind. I’ve got his hand pinched up at the wrist and wound behind his back and I’ve slammed him chest-first into the wall before I realize it’s Kent. Kent, who’s not fighting back, just laughing and telling me to let go of him.

I do.

I drop his arm. Stunned. Shake my head to clear it. I don’t remember to apologize.

“Are you okay?” someone else says to me.

It’s James. He’s still the size of a child, and for some reason this surprises me. I take a careful breath. My hands are shaking. I’ve never felt further from okay, and I’m too confused by my anxiety to remember to lie.