Unravel Me (Shatter Me, #2)(51)

Kenji is wearing a suit.

Some kind of bodysuit. He’s black from head to toe, his jet-black hair and eyes a perfect match for the outfit molded to every contour of his body. The suit seems to have a synthetic feel to it, almost like plastic; it gleams in the fluorescent lighting of the room and looks like it’d be too stiff to move around in. But then I see him stretching his arms and rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet and the suit suddenly looks fluid, like it moves with him. He’s wearing boots but no gloves, and a harness, just like me. But his is different: it has simple holsters that sling over his arms like the straps of a backpack.

And Adam.

Adam is gorgeous wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, dark blue and dangerously tight across his chest. I can’t help but linger over the details of his outfit, can’t help but remember what it was like to be held against him, in his arms. He’s standing right in front of me and I miss him like I haven’t seen him in years. His black cargo pants are tucked into the same pair of black boots he was wearing when I first met him in the asylum, shin-high and sleek, created from smooth leather that fits him so perfectly it’s a surprise they weren’t made for his body. But there are no weapons on his person.

And I’m curious enough to ask.

“Adam?”

He lifts his head to look up and freezes. Blinks, eyebrows up, lips parted. His eyes travel down every inch of my body, pausing to study the harness framing my chest, the guns slung close to my waist.

He says nothing. He runs a hand through his hair, presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and says something about being right back. He leaves the room.

I feel sick.

Kenji clears his throat, loud. Shakes his head. Says, “Wow. I mean, really, are you trying to kill the guy?”

“What?”

Kenji is looking at me like I’m an idiot. “You can’t just go around all ‘Oh, Adam, look at me, look at how sexy I am in my new outfit’ and bat your eyelashes—”

“Bat my eyelashes?” I balk at him. “What are you talking about? I’m not batting my eyelashes at him! And this is the same outfit I’ve worn every day—”

Kenji grunts. Shrugs and says, “Yeah, well, it looks different.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I am just saying,” he says, hands up in mock surrender, “that if I were him? And you were my girl? And you were walking around looking like that, and I couldn’t touch you?” He looks away. Shrugs again. “I am just saying I do not envy the poor bastard.”

“I don’t know what to do,” I whisper. “I’m not trying to hurt him—”

“Oh hell. Forget I said anything,” he says, waving his hands around. “Seriously. It is none of my business.” He shoots me a look. “And do not consider this an invitation for you to start telling me all of your secret feelings now.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not going to tell you anything about my feelings.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to know.”

“Have you ever had a girlfriend, Kenji?”

“What?” He looks mortally offended. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’s never had a girlfriend? Have you even met me?”

I roll my eyes. “Forget I asked.”

“I can’t even believe you just said that.”

“You’re the one who’s always going on about not wanting to talk about your feelings,” I snap.

“No,” he says. “I said I don’t want to talk about your feelings.” He points at me. “I have zero problem talking about my own.”

“So do you want to talk about your feelings?”

“Hell no.”

“Bu—”

“No.”

“Fine.” I look away. Pull at the straps tugging at my back. “So what’s up with your suit?” I ask him.

“What do you mean, what’s up with it?” He frowns. He runs his hands down his outfit. “This suit is badass.”

I bite back a smile. “I just meant, why are you wearing a suit? Why do you get one and Adam doesn’t?”

He shrugs. “Adam doesn’t need one. Few people do—it all depends on what kind of gift we have. For me, this suit makes my life a hell of a lot easier. I don’t always use it, but when I need to get serious about a mission, it really helps. Like, when I need to blend into a background,” he explains, “it’s less complicated if I’m shifting one solid color—hence, the black. And if I have too many layers and too many extra pieces floating around my body, I have to focus that much more on making sure I blend all the details. If I’m one solid piece and one solid color, I’m a much better chameleon. Besides,” he adds, stretching out the muscles in his arms, “I look sexy as hell in this outfit.”

It takes all the self-control I have not to burst into laughter.

“So, but what about Adam?” I ask him. “Adam doesn’t need a suit or guns? That doesn’t seem right.”

“I do have guns,” Adam says as he walks back into the room. His eyes are focused on the fists he’s clenching and unclenching in front of him. “You just can’t see them.”

I can’t stop looking at him, can’t stop staring.