Chapter 7 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
As if in slow motion, I turn around.
The sight of him strikes me harder than I expect. My pulse picks up an erratic, dangerous rhythm; goose bumps come alive on
my skin. Impossibly, my heart beats harder, my chest compressing. I feel a terrible tremble in my hands and I close them into
fists, then lose two full seconds looking into his eyes, tearing away only to lose another three to the study of his features.
The blood rushes from my head.
“No,” I whisper.
In response, James almost smiles. “I’ll try not to take that personally.”
I sink back against the truck, finally relinquishing a measure of control. I need to lean against something, brace myself
against something. I’m unmoored, as always, by the potent force of his presence. There’s something electric about James’s
spirit, the effect heightened by the high contrasts he carries. The staggering build of him tempered by the warmth in his
eyes; the harsh cut of his face softened by the freckles dusted across his nose.
Everything about him is both playful and brutal.
A raindrop unhitches from his hair and I watch, mesmerized, as it wends its way down his cheek, surrendering to the soft curve of his mouth.
My eyes linger there too long, heat rising up inside me, steaming my cold head.
In stillness his beauty is alarming enough, but he’s most terrifying when he moves.
When he laughs and looks around, when he walks across a room—
When he makes direct eye contact.
Even now, here, as the rain shatters around us, James is looking at me with unyielding amusement, his head canted in silent
challenge.
“You have cat ears,” he says.
I try to speak. My lips part.
I manage only to exhale.
He reaches out slowly, softly touching the small, pointed ear attached to my hood. “I have so many questions,” he says, looking
me over as if we have time. As if we’re not drowning.
As if I’m not being hunted.
You’d never know a storm was raging, that a security alert had been issued throughout the city, that lightning had begun to
flash all around us. A different version of me might’ve underestimated him once, might’ve thought I could catch him off guard,
disarm him in an instant.
I know better now than to believe anything about James is casual.
I feel myself growing only more frantic as he studies me, his eyes lingering along the lines of my body as he takes in the
too-small fit of the costume I’m wearing. I’d grabbed it from the party supply store to replace the stolen teacher’s clothes.
I changed several times upon exiting the prison, discarding outfits on principle.
My last attempt was a bit reckless.
The poorly sewn sleeves are a little too short, the rough seams of the shoulders just a little too tight. I’d reached quickly
for what I’d thought was a simple, all-black outfit. And I know the moment James spots the tail, because he makes a choked
sound, somewhere between delight and disbelief.
“I thought it was a ninja costume,” I whisper.
Now he laughs out loud.
He throws his head back and laughs with his entire body, the sound all but lost in the storm, and I watch him helplessly,
with growing desperation.
Help, I want to scream.
James has an effect on me I never knew was possible; an effect I don’t even know how to name—
My instincts want to sleep when he’s nearby.
My brain tries to shut down its defenses. My nervous system begins to quiet. My bones unclench; my eyelids feel heavy; exhaustion
overtakes me.
The fight simply leaves my body.
I’d been relieved, days and days ago, by the idea that I’d never see him again. I’d been certain I’d never feel this kind
of weakness again. Never be this close to him again. Never glimpse this smile again.
And now—
My breaths grow shallow, my eyes closing as a wave of cold panic crashes through my body.
“Is this—” He reaches for my wrist and I stop breathing altogether, holding still as his thumb softly grazes the short cuff. “I’m sorry,” he says, still fighting a smile, “but is this a children’s costume?”
My cheeks heat.
“Rosabelle.” He says my name like I’m in trouble. “You’ve got the full force of the resistance flooding the streets, snipers
stationed on rooftops ready to take you out, and you’ve been running around town in a little kid’s cat onesie? With a tail?”
“I was— The inseam of an adult size would’ve been too long on me.” I falter, mortified. “I couldn’t— There was no time to
try on different sizes—”
“Wow,” he says, his eyes shining.
I shake my head. “Please,” I say. “Please don’t do this. Don’t make me do this.”
He releases my wrist and I nearly give it back.
“Do what?” he asks.
This isn’t fair. I can hardly breathe. I’m so disarmed around him I don’t even realize I’m practically begging when I say,
“I really, really don’t want to kill you.”
He leans in.
Suddenly he’s so close I can feel the heat of him. So close I can almost count his freckles; so close I can no longer feel
the cold, can no longer access my mind.
I think I might be trembling.
He whispers, “That’s practically a declaration of love, Rosabelle Wolff.”
I take a sharp breath and draw back, my heart slamming painfully against my ribs. I try to clear my head, but I’m up against the truck, and I’ve only bought myself a few inches. My hood slips off, exposing my face to freshly windswept rain. “How did you even find me?”
James considers this a moment, then reaches for me slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. I hold still, trying not to exhale
as he pulls the hood back over my head. I feel him adjust the wilting cat ears.
“Everyone else thinks you’re on your way to commit mass murder,” he says. “They’ve taken positions all over the city, covering
major landmarks and densely populated areas.” He shakes his head, releasing me. “This is the closest airbase to the prison.
I knew once you realized where you were, you’d be trying to find the most efficient way to get home.”
My heart is so loud now I can almost hear it over the rain. “You don’t know that,” I say faintly. “Maybe I am trying to commit
mass murder.”
His eyes soften in a way that scares me. “Liar.”
“You can’t make me stay here.”
He briefly looks away, over his shoulder. “You know I can’t let you leave.”
“Just pretend you never found me.” I sound desperate, even to myself. “You can walk away right now—”
Slowly, he shakes his head. Even more slowly, he rises to his feet, towering over me, blocking out the rain. “You’re soaked
through the bone, Rosabelle. You’ve barely slept in days. You’re clearly not eating enough. You need to get out of the storm.
You need sleep. You need soup.” Then, studying me: “Do you like soup?”
He’s silent for long enough that I realize he’s waiting for an answer.
“Is that a real question?” I ask, frowning at the blur of red lights still flashing in the distance.
“Do I look like I’m joking?” he says, crossing his arms.
I meet his eyes. “You want to know if I like soup?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I—I don’t know,” I say, confused.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
This turn of the conversation is disorienting me; my panic is still coiling. I rack my mind, trying to take inventory of the
rations Clara and I have been allotted in the past decade, while simultaneously trying to determine the most discreet exit
out of the airfield. I’m going to have to change plans. “Are you talking about liquid soup?”
“Liquid soup?” he repeats, his arms dropping to his sides. “Is there another kind of soup?”
I blink up at him, wiping rainwater from my eyes. “Sometimes they give us porridge.”
“Jesus.” His jaw tenses. “Look, I need to get you inside, get you warm. You’re going to die out here.”
“I’ll die when I’m ready,” I say to him.
A ghost of an angry smile touches his lips.
He pushes wet hair off his forehead and looks around at the darkening sky, bands of golden light still struggling to break
through the clouds. “You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?” he says, returning his gaze to me. “In the
middle of a rainstorm.”
I inch away from him. “What do you mean?”
“All right, sleepyhead.” He sighs. “Let’s get this over with.”
My eyes widen. “Sleepyhead?”
“Yeah,” he says, considering me. “You always look at me like you’re about to fall asleep.”
Fresh mortification delivers me a burst of uncomfortable energy. “No, I don’t.”
He makes a face at the clouds. “Lie to me later, okay? I really don’t want to be out here for any longer than is absolutely
necessary. You’re already forcing me to learn how to cook. I don’t even know how to chop an onion.”
“I’m not forcing you to— What are you talking about?”
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
I’m shaking my head. “I’m not coming with you.”
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “You ready?”
“For what?”
“To fight.” He offers me his hand. “If I win, I take you back. If I lose—” He hesitates, briefly retracting his hand. “Well,
then, I guess I’m dead.”
“No,” I nearly shout. I stare at him, alarm awakening in my chest. “I won’t fight you. I don’t want to kill you—”
James reaches inside his jacket and I don’t even think before I react, jumping to my feet to land a combination of blows to
a few vital organs before landing swift kicks to the backs of his knees. He slips on the wet pavement and nearly hits the
ground before throwing out a hand to catch himself, hard, against the side of the truck.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, stiffening in horror. “I’m so sorry— I didn’t mean—”
“Jesus,” he mutters. He stares up at me, his face inscrutable as he massages the side of his torso.
“I was just trying to give you this before I lose the chance.” He reaches back into his jacket and retrieves something slim and rectangular, which only becomes clear once he’s pressed it into my hand.
It’s a chocolate bar.
The chocolate bar I’d received in a small pack of essentials prior to arriving at the rehab facility. I’d promised myself
I’d save it for Clara—that I’d take it home to her so she could taste chocolate for the very first time. After the grisly