Reveal Me (Shatter Me #5.5)(17)

A sudden, terrifying thought shudders through me, nearly making me stumble. What if they’ve already gotten to J?

I won’t let that happen.

I have no idea how anyone—even one of Anderson’s men—was able to penetrate the Sanctuary, but if that’s where we are, then this is a matter of life and death. I have no idea what happened while I was half-dead in my room, but things must’ve escalated in my absence. I need to catch this piece of shit, or all our lives could be at risk. And if Anderson gets what he wants tonight, he’ll have no reason to keep James and Adam alive anymore. If they’re even still alive.

I have to do this. It doesn’t matter how weak I feel. I have no choice, not really.

I steel myself, pushing harder, my legs and lungs burning from the effort. Whoever this is, they’re perfectly trained. It’s hard to admit my own shortcomings, but I can’t deny that the only reason I’ve made it this far is because of the hour—it’s so eerily quiet right now that even delicate noises feel loud. And this guy, whoever he is, knows how to run fast, and seemingly forever, without making much sound. If we were anywhere else, at any other time, I’m not sure I’d be able to track him.

But I’ve got rage and indignation on my side.

When we enter a thick, suffocating stretch of forest, I decide I really, really hate this guy. The moonlight doesn’t quite penetrate here, which will make it nearly impossible to spot him, even if I get close enough. But I know I’m gaining on him when our breaths seem to sync up, our footfalls finding a rhythm. He must sense this, too, because I feel him power through, picking up speed with an agility that leaves me in awe. I’m giving this all I’ve got, but apparently this guy was just having fun. Going for a stroll.

Jesus.

I’ve got no choice but to play dirty.

I’m not good enough to shoot, while running, at a moving target I can’t see—I’m not Warner, for God’s sake—so my childish backup plan will have to suffice.

I chuck the gun. Hard. Give it everything I’ve got.

It’s a clean throw, solid. All I need is a stumble. A single, infinitesimal moment of hesitation. Anything to give me an edge.

And when I hear it—a brief, surprised intake of air— I launch myself forward with a cry, and tackle him to the ground.





Ten


“What . . . the hell?”

I must be hallucinating. I better be hallucinating.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh my God, I’m so sorry—”

I try to push myself up, but I threw myself forward with everything I had, and I nearly knocked myself out in the process. I’ve barely got enough strength left to stand. Still, I manage to shift myself a little to the side and, when I feel the damp grass against my skin, I remember that I’m not wearing a shirt.

I swear loudly.

This night could not possibly get worse.

But then, in the space of half a second, my mind catches up to my body and the force of understanding—of realization—is so intense that it nearly blinds me. Anger, hot and wild, surges through me, and it’s enough to propel me up and away from her. I stumble backward, onto the ground, and hit my head against a tree trunk.

“Son of a—” I cut myself off with an angry cry.

Nazeera scrambles backward.

She’s still planted on the ground, her eyes wild, her hair loose, coming free of its tie. I’ve never seen her look so terrified. I’ve never seen her look so paralyzed. And something about the pained look in her eyes takes the edge off my anger.

Just the edge.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I cry. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she says, and drops her face in her hands.

“You’re sorry?” I’m still shouting. “You’re sorry? I could’ve killed you.”

And even then, even in this horrible, unbelievable moment, she has the audacity to look me in the eye and say: “I doubt that.”

I swear to God, my eyes go so wide with rage I think they split my face open. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this woman.

No fucking clue.

“I—I don’t even—” I flounder, fighting for the right words. “There are so many reasons why you should be, like, shipped off on a one-way ticket to the moon right now, I don’t even know where to start.” I run my hands through my hair, grabbing fistfuls. “What were you thinking? Why—why—” And then, suddenly, something occurs to me. A cold, sick feeling gathers in my chest and I drop my hands. Look at her.

“Nazeera,” I say quietly. “Why were you in my room?”

She pulls her knees to her chest. Closes her eyes. And only when I can no longer see her face—when she presses her forehead to her knees—does she say: “I honestly think this might be the most embarrassing moment of my entire life.”

My muscles go slack. I stare at her, stunned, confused, angrier than I’ve been in years. “I don’t understand.”

She shakes her head. Just keeps shaking her head. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” she says. “I thought you’d sleep through the night. I just wanted to check on you—I wanted to make sure you were okay because it was all my fault and I felt—I felt so awful—”