Unravel Me (Shatter Me, #2)(74)

His entire back is a map of pain.

Thick and thin and uneven and terrible. Scars like roads that lead to nowhere. They’re gashes and ragged slices I can’t understand, marks of torture I never could have expected. They’re the only imperfections on his entire body, imperfections hidden away and hiding secrets of their own.

And I realize, not for the first time, that I have no idea who Warner really is.

“Juliette?”

I freeze.

“What are you doing here?” His eyes are wide, alert.

“I—I came to talk to you—”

“Jesus,” he gasps, jumping away from me. “I’m very flattered, love, but you could’ve at least given me a chance to put my pants on.” He’s pulled himself up against the wall but makes no effort to grab his clothes. His eyes keep darting from me to the pants on the floor like he doesn’t know what to do. He seems determined not to turn his back to me.

“Would you mind?” he says, nodding to the clothes next to my feet and affecting an air of nonchalance that does little to hide the apprehension in his eyes. “It gets chilly in here.”

But I’m staring at him, staring at the length of him, awed by how incredibly flawless he looks from the front. Strong, lean frame, toned and muscular without being bulky. He’s fair without being pale, skin tinted with just enough sunlight to look effortlessly healthy. The body of a perfect boy.

What a lie appearances can be.

What a terrible, terrible lie.

His gaze is fixed on mine, his eyes green flames that will not extinguish and his chest is rising and falling so fast, so fast, so fast.

“What happened to your back?” I hear myself whisper.

I watch as the color drains from his face. He looks away, runs a hand across his mouth, his chin, down the back of his neck.

“Who hurt you?” I ask, so quietly. I’m beginning to recognize the strange feeling I get just before I do something terrible. Like right now. Right now I feel like I could kill someone for this.

“Juliette, please, my clothes—”

“Was it your father?” I ask, my voice a little sharper. “Did he do this to you—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Warner cuts me off, frustrated now.

“Of course it matters!”

He says nothing.

“That tattoo,” I say to him, “that word—”

“Yes,” he says, though he says it quietly. Clears his throat.

“I don’t …” I blink. “What does it mean?”

Warner shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair.

“Is it from a book?”

“Why do you care?” he asks, looking away again. “Why are you suddenly so interested in my life?”

I don’t know, I want to tell him. I want to tell him I don’t know but that’s not true.

Because I feel it. I feel the clicks and the turns and the creaking of a million keys unlocking a million doors in my mind. It’s like I’m finally allowing myself to see what I really think, how I really feel, like I’m discovering my own secrets for the first time. And then I search his eyes, search his features for something I can’t even name. And I realize I don’t want to be his enemy anymore.

“It’s over,” I say to him. “I’m not on base with you this time. I’m not going to be your weapon and you’ll never be able to change my mind about that. I think you know that now.” I study the floor. “So why are we still fighting each other? Why are you still trying to manipulate me? Why are you still trying to get me to fall for your tricks?”

“I have no idea,” he says, looking at me like he’s not sure I’m even real, “no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Why did you tell Castle you could touch me? That wasn’t your secret to share.”

“Right.” He exhales a deep breath. “Of course.” Seems to return to himself. “Listen, love, could you at least toss me my jacket if you’re going to stay here and ask me all these questions?”

I toss him his jacket. He catches it. Slides down to the floor. And instead of putting his jacket on, he drapes it over his lap. Finally, he says, “Yes, I did tell Castle I could touch you. He had a right to know.”

“That wasn’t any of his business.”

“Of course it’s his business,” Warner says. “The entire world he’s created down here thrives on exactly that kind of information. And you’re here, living among them. He should know.”

“He doesn’t need to know.”

“Why is it such a big deal?” he asks, studying my eyes too carefully. “Why does it bother you so much for someone to know that I can touch you? Why does it have to be a secret?”

I struggle to find the words that won’t come.

“Are you worried about Kent? You think he’d have a problem knowing I can touch you?”

“I didn’t want him to find out like this—”

“But why does it matter?” he insists. “You seem to care so much about something that makes no difference in your personal life. It wouldn’t,” he says, “make any difference in your personal life. Not if you still claim to feel nothing but hatred for me. Because that’s what you said, isn’t it? That you hate me?”