Unravel Me (Shatter Me, #2)(90)

“Don’t be afraid—”

“H-how,” I stammer, “how did you d-do that—”

“Don’t be frightened, love, it’s all right, I promise—it’s new for me, too—”

“My—my power? It doesn’t—you don’t feel any pain?”

He shakes his head. “On the contrary. It’s the most incredible rush of adrenaline—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. I actually feel a little light-headed,” he says, “in the best possible way.” He laughs. Smiles to himself. Drops his head into his hands. Looks up. “Can we do it again?”

“No,” I say too quickly.

He’s grinning. “Are you sure?”

“I can’t—I just, I still can’t believe you can touch me. That you really—I mean”—I’m shaking my head—“there’s no catch? There are no conditions? You touch me and no one gets hurt? And not only does no one get hurt, but you enjoy it? You actually like the way it feels to touch me?”

He’s blinking at me now, staring like he’s not sure how to answer my question.

“Well?”

“Yes,” he says, but it’s a breathless word.

“Yes, what?”

I can hear how hard his heart is beating. I can actually hear it in the silence between us. “Yes,” he says. “I like it.”

Impossible.

“You never have to be afraid of touching me,” he says. “It won’t hurt me. It can only give me strength.”

I want to laugh one of those strange, high-pitched, delusional laughs that signals the end of a person’s sanity. Because this world, I think, has a terrible, terrible sense of humor. It always seems to be laughing at me. At my expense. Making my life infinitely more complicated all the time. Ruining all of my best-laid plans by making every choice so difficult. Making everything so confusing.

I can’t touch the boy I love.

But I can use my touch to strengthen the boy who tried to kill the one I love.

No one, I want to tell the world, is laughing.

“Warner.” I look up, hit with a sudden realization. “You have to tell Castle.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he has to know! It would explain Kenji’s situation and it could help us tomorrow! You’ll be fighting with us and it might come in handy—”

Warner laughs.

He laughs and laughs and laughs, his eyes brilliant, gleaming even in this dim light. He laughs until it’s just a hard breath, until it becomes a gentle sigh, until it dissolves into an amused smile. And then he grins at me until he’s grinning to himself, until he looks down and his gaze drops to my hand, the one lying limp on my lap and he hesitates just a moment before his fingers brush the soft, thin skin covering my knuckles.

I don’t breathe.

I don’t speak.

I don’t even move.

He’s hesitant, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away and I should, I know I should but I don’t. So he takes my hand. Studies it. Runs his fingers along the lines of my palm, the creases at my joints, the sensitive spot between my thumb and index finger and his touch is so tender, so delicate and gentle and it feels so good it hurts, it actually hurts. And it’s too much for my heart to handle right now.

I snatch back my hand in a jerky, awkward motion, face flushing, pulse tripping.

Warner doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even seem surprised. He only stares at his now empty hands as he speaks. “You know,” he says, his voice both strange and soft, “I think Castle is little more than an optimistic fool. He tries too hard to welcome too many people and it’s going to backfire, simply because it’s impossible to please everyone.” A pause. “He is the perfect example of the kind of person who doesn’t know the rules of this game. Someone who thinks too much with his heart and clings too desperately to some fantastical notion of hope and peace. It will never help him,” he sighs. “In fact, it will be the end of him, I’m quite sure of it.

“But there is something about you,” Warner says, “something about the way you hope for things.” He shakes his head. “It’s so naive that it’s oddly endearing. You like to believe people when they speak,” he says. “You prefer kindness.” He smiles, just a little. Looks up. “It amuses me.”

All at once I feel like an idiot. “You’re not fighting with us tomorrow.”

Warner is smiling openly now, his eyes so warm. “I’m going to leave.”

“You’re going to leave.” I’m numb.

“I don’t belong here.”

I’m shaking my head, saying, “I don’t understand—how can you leave? You told Castle you’re going to fight with us tomorrow—does he know you’re leaving? Does anyone know?” I ask him, searching his face. “What do you have planned? What are you going to do?”

He doesn’t answer.

“What are you going to do, Warner—”

“Juliette,” he whispers, and his eyes are urgent, tortured all of a sudden. “I need to ask you somethi—”

Someone is bolting down the tunnels.

Calling my name.

Adam.