Rosabelle 28
Rosabelle
The door slams shut behind us.
The lock bolts into place.
The room is liquid dark, nothing but moonlight shining through a few windows.
I blink slowly, my eyes adjusting as crickets chirp in muted concert outside.
The refrigerator hums. Warner hits a switch, and a bare bulb buzzes to life in the middle of the ceiling, casting a small sphere of cold light in the center of the room.
The weak bulb illuminates an occupied spiderweb, and the irritated owner scrambles out of sight.
I track its skittish movements with my eyes.
I want to tell Warner that there are other switches.
Recessed lights in the kitchen and front hall. But I say nothing, because it’s better that I can’t really see his face.
Warner is seething.
I’d like to kill him, too.
He left me barricaded in my recovery room for four hours before he deigned to collect me, and if not for my newfound desire to set aside murder as a solution to a problem, it might’ve been a bloodier night.
He and I have been fighting on and off for most of the day, interrupted always by insufficient time and/or privacy.
We couldn’t talk back at the rehab facility, where Jing and Aya and Elias managed to keep me another ten minutes before Warner finally lost his patience.
Nor could we fully argue in the car on the way to or from the hospital, where the smoked, bulletproof barrier between us and the driver provided only enough cover for a few furiously whispered accusations; and we certainly couldn’t shout at each other in the hospital itself.
I thought locking me in my recovery room might’ve made Warner feel better. I thought his temper might’ve cooled in the interim.
It seems to have gotten worse.
“I am not your keeper,” he says, diving in with no preamble.
“This was not our agreement. You are not allowed to be belligerent and irresponsible. You do not have license to move freely through my city. You will never again conduct an interrogation alone with Sebastian. And I don’t have the bandwidth to shuttle you to and from the hospital every time you decide to do something stupid—”
“I never asked you to do anything for me,” I say, cutting him off with cold disdain. “I would’ve been fine.”
“Fine?” he echoes. “You would’ve been fine? Were you planning on keeping your jaw permanently unhinged? Were you going to wait until the nerve damage in your eye resulted in permanent vision loss?”
“It would’ve healed one way or another.”
He stares at me. “How is that a reasonable response?”
“I don’t owe you a reasonable response.”
“You broke the rules—”
“I never agreed to your rules,” I say, my voice heating. “And I owe you nothing more than what I’ve already delivered.”
“You will not be allowed to do whatever you like, unchecked. You lied to me—”
“I never lied. I omitted information.”
“You assured me you knew what you were doing. You said that you knew how to manage him—”
“I do know how to manage him.”
“Allowing him to break your face,” he says, his voice rising dangerously, “is not managing him—”
“How I manage Sebastian is none of your business.”
A veil of silence falls between us.
Warner turns toward me in the half dark, giving me his full and undivided attention.
My heart picks up.
I’m not yet cured of my fear of the eldest Anderson brother, and this is reflected in my elevated pulse, the faint tremble in my right arm.
But over the past few days I’ve learned that Warner is capable of occasionally retracting his razor-sharp edges, and I’m beginning to understand that there might be more to him than the workings of a machine.
Still, I know better than to let down my guard.
He studies me a beat longer, his eyes glinting like blades in the low light. “Everything that happens in my world is my business,” he says. “For as long as you are under my protection, you and your reckless behaviors are my business.”
“My behavior is far from reckless,” I counter. “And you’re forgetting that I don’t require your protection. You require mine.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I never flatter myself,” I say sharply.
“I don’t bother with vanity. I have no ego.
And I don’t exaggerate. It’s a simple fact that your soft, loud world is bound for destruction.
You have no idea how incautiously you’d been living your lives.
If not for my intercession, you’d have no chance for survival—”
“Your intercession,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “was born of an impulsive, emotional decision that only emphasized the danger of your unpredictable behavior. You proved in that moment that I’d be a fool ever to trust you.
Had you truly wanted to help our soft, loud world, you might’ve come to me willingly, you might’ve helped us form a coherent plan as an allied team long before we were attacked, long before our casualties lined the streets—”
“I had no reason to trust you—”
“Then why bother helping at all?”
We fall silent.
The truth, unspoken, remains starkly evident, rising between us like a ghost.
I suspect Warner already knows the real reason I weakened. The real reason I abruptly swung open the door to my life and allowed these people access to my mind.
I take a step back, and the dull thuds of my hospital shoes register like the beats of a dying heart.
I had a plan. I was going to get the vial and get back to the Ark.
I was going to kill Klaus and save Clara and no one was supposed to know the details, because I knew the rebels would never understand.
Because people this publicly drunk on the idea of freedom could never fathom a surveillance apparatus that might invade the very veins that run through their bodies.
I broke.
In a desperate moment, I gave up my freshly won independence for these new chains. I allowed myself to be corralled on this campus, monitored by these people, subjected to these kinds of infuriating castigations.
I did it for one reason only.
I take an audible breath, wishing I could drain this feeling from my body.
The simple thought of James scatters diffuse sensation along my skin, awakening the systems I keep trying to kill.
I don’t know how to get him out of me. I don’t know how to die deeply enough to deny this. He’s risen inside me like the sun.
I couldn’t risk Sebastian getting near him.
My right hand trembles harder.
Warner takes a step toward me, and a thread of fear coils around my spine.
“It’s true,” he says softly, “that the intelligence you’ve thus far provided has been critical.
Helpful. I won’t deny it; I don’t need to deny what’s obvious.
But while I’m grateful to know more about my enemies, I’m not stupid enough to celebrate your deceptions. ”
“Omissions.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that Sebastian’s father is Alastair Rivers?”
I slacken, surprised. “I—How did you—”
“What are you planning to do, Rosabelle?” he demands. “How do you intend to use the Rivers family to pursue your goals?”
I go quiet at that, my heart hammering.
I hadn’t wanted Warner to know too much about Sebastian’s background. I hadn’t wanted Warner’s input or interference. I worried if he knew about Sebastian’s father he’d over-involve himself in the interrogations—and I’d wanted to manage Sebastian myself.
Warner seems to read my mind.
“You will not go over my head,” he says angrily. “I won’t allow it.”
“I’ve already told you my plan,” I argue, finding my voice. “You know that I need the vial—that I need to get back to the Ark to destroy Klaus—”
“Yes, but how, precisely, do you intend to accomplish that? The question remains unanswered.”
To this, I say nothing.
His eyes flash.
“You will not plot your own path,” he says. “You will not act alone. You will not devise a plan to take steps on behalf of my people without my approval—”
“You don’t get to govern my mind,” I say, cutting him off. “Make whatever demands you like. I owe you nothing.”
Heavy silence.
Warner takes another step toward me, and I hold my breath, fear like fingers walking up my spine.
His hair looks almost silver in this light, his pale eyes a little inhuman, reflecting the uneven electric glow. Standing in his presence is like being incrementally pressed against a jagged edge of glass; the pain doesn’t fully clarify until you realize you’re bleeding.
“You are mistaking me for a different kind of enemy,” he says into the quiet. “I am not trying to govern your mind. And you are allowing your fears to guide you toward self-destruction.”
I exhale carefully.
As with James, my mistake was thinking Warner could be easily classified. I need more time to form a thorough assessment of his character.
I can’t figure out how to manage him.
So far, I’ve only been able to identify one major weakness in Aaron Warner Anderson. This rare chink in his armor is owned by his wife—the legendary Juliette Ferrars—who I’ve yet to meet. I get the sense he’s keeping her away from me on purpose.
In my mind, I reach for her file.
Juliette Ferrars, born Ella Sommers; child of Maximillian and Evie Sommers. Daughter to a supreme commander; her parents both illustrious, acclaimed scientists immortalized by the regime. One older sister, Emmaline Sommers. Deceased.
Emmaline has her own dark file.
Both sisters were said to be in possession of the most dangerous preternatural powers ever created.
Everything about Juliette Ferrars, as she is known to the world, was designed as a weapon.
Her beauty is fatal. Her skin is lethal.
She’s rumored to have extraordinary brute strength that, when activated, can render her invulnerable to injury.
The sisters were unnaturally created by their own parents.