Chapter 11 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
“Get away from me,” I breathe, horrified.
James ducks down beside me, grimacing as he crouches. When he meets my eyes, he gestures to his wounds, to the blood streaked
across half his body. “Oh, this?” he says with a shrug. “Nothing to worry about. She told me she loves my freckles.”
“You have to get out of here,” I say, forcing my anger to override the ache in my chest. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one trying to kill me, Rosabelle.”
“Stop,” I say desperately. “This isn’t funny—”
“I agree. We really need to stop meeting like this.”
“James—”
He lifts a hand to my cheek, his eyes tightening as he sweeps his thumb through the tributary of blood still dripping down
the side of my face, and I forget to breathe.
“I’d really like to spend some time with you under normal circumstances,” he says, forcing a grim smile. “Dinner. Movie. No
murdering. Better ambience.”
I know he’s joking, trying to defuse the tension, but something inside of me grieves the simple dream he’s describing. I hope he finds that kind of happiness.
I’ll be long dead by then.
“I haven’t actually murdered anyone,” I admit, presenting this confession self-consciously, like a child offering a crude
illustration as art.
James casts me a doubtful glance. “You haven’t murdered anyone?”
“No.”
“You mean, like, in the last five minutes?”
My cheeks heat. “Yes.”
Now he’s fighting a grin. “Wow, Rosabelle, that must’ve been hard for you.”
I don’t answer that.
Shouts echo in the distance. There’s a sudden crack of thunder, and a deluge of rain batters the roof, briefly indistinguishable
from gunfire.
“I really need you to get out of here,” I say to him. “Now.”
“Now?” He feigns surprise, looking around as if he were at a party. “Like, right now? But I haven’t even had a chance to say hi
to everyone—”
“You never listen to me,” I say angrily. “I need you to listen to me just this once—”
This time, his shock is real. “I never listen to you?”
“Being in my orbit will cost you your life. Stay away from me. I heard your brother tell them not to spare you—”
“Who? Warner?” James makes a face. “He’s not going to let anyone kill me. I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he says, hesitating. “He’ll definitely let someone shoot me. He might let a lot of people shoot me. But if I died on his watch his wife would never forgive him.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, tensing as debris skitter along the ground, rolling carts whining as they’re pushed around by the wind.
I hear a shudder of footsteps and adjust my gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. “They’re taking straight shots at my
head and they don’t seem to care who they hit.”
James absorbs this in silence.
He seems to see me as if for the first time, his gaze sweeping along my body, his eyes hardening as he takes account of my
various injuries. He looks like he’s about to say something when I feel a rush of movement.
I look over James’s shoulder, lock eyes with an incoming fighter, and choose to forfeit my shot in order to tackle James to
the floor.
She opens fire and I roll over, moving faster than I can think, then shoot her in the arm twice, listening for the cry and
clatter as the gun slips out of her hand. It’s hard work to deny my own instincts, muscle memory processing faster than my
mind, and I remind myself to slow down—to act consciously—as I clamber upright, shooting her in the other arm before forcing
my finger off the trigger. She makes a guttural sound of rage as blood snakes down her arms, and I take advantage of the moment
to climb onto the generator and jump-kick her directly in the chest.
We fall together, tangling as we hit the ground.
I land poorly and nearly bite through my tongue, my head pounding, pain exploding in shock waves along my ribs.
The soldier groans as she tries to rise, but I drag myself behind her and lock her in a blood choke, the effort nearly draining my reserves.
When I finally feel her pass out, I release her limp body to the floor.
“Jesus.”
I look up, breathing hard, to find James staring at me.
“I thought you said you weren’t murdering anyone.” A notch forms between his brows. “Is she dead?”
“No, she’s just asleep.”
“I think you shot her three times.”
“She nearly killed you!”
He frowns. “Did we just write a haiku?”
I glance behind us, then duck behind the generator again, needing a minute to catch my breath. “James, please. For the last
time, get out of here. This isn’t your fight and I don’t—”
He suddenly kneels in front of me and I falter, words failing me as he reaches for the spare gun slung around my neck.
“I don’t want you to die,” I finish breathlessly.
He lifts the strap over my head and I’m rooted in place, afraid to move. He studies me, his eyes inscrutable. “You say that
so much I’m starting to think you really mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
“Wow, Rosabelle,” he says softly, almost smiling. “I had no idea you were such a romantic.”
“Please,” I say. “Leave.”
“No.”
“James—”
He laughs. “No fucking chance.”
“Listen to me,” I say, finally losing control. I grab a fistful of his shirt and yank him closer, my voice nearly shaking
with fury. “If these soldiers matter to you, leave. If you want to spare their lives, leave. I’m trying—I’m really trying to be a better person, but if even one of them hurts you I swear I’ll slaughter them all.”
James goes still.
My heart is hammering violently in my chest.
He loses his smile as he stares at me, then at my hand gripping his shirt. All traces of humor have vanished from his face.
There’s a look in his eyes now that I’ve never seen; a dark heat I don’t know how to name. Somehow this reaches me without
words, without a sound, and the longer he stares at me the more unsteady I feel. I finally remember to release his shirt,
studying my own hand as if it betrayed me, and put it back where it belongs: around the rifle. My finger glides against the
cold metal trigger, trembling. James looks away from me and takes a tight breath, and my eyes drift to the unsteady rise and
fall of his chest.
I feel raw. Exposed.
A little terrified.
“James,” I try again, quiet but desperate. “Please.”
A soldier rushes up behind us and James rises to his feet in a fluid motion, pivoting so effortlessly I don’t even think to stand.
He seems to change bodies then, hardening into something both brutal and unbothered as he aims his gun casually at the fighter, who comes to a sudden, paralyzed stop at the sight of him.
The soldier looks between me and James like he doesn’t know what to do.
“Hey, Liam,” James says easily. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
I stiffen.
Liam’s eyes widen, his gaze darting to me. “I’m not supposed to—”
Two more soldiers turn the corner, and now I’m on my feet, but James shakes his head at me and I slowly, cautiously, lower
my weapon. He nods at the newly arrived soldiers, both cloaked in shadow. They, too, come to an uncertain halt when they see
him.
Everyone is looking warily between us.
James sighs.
“We’re done here,” he says to the group. “Go home.”
One of the fighters steps slowly into a shaft of moonlight, his dark skin gleaming. He shoots an uncertain glance my way.
“Bro,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “What the hell is going on?”
“Is that her?” The other soldier steps into the light, drawing closer, and I catch a glimpse of his dark eyes, his slightly
broken nose. “Why does she have cat ears?”
I don’t even have time to process this before there’s another hush of movement, a thunder of footfalls—and six more soldiers
suddenly skid to a stop before us.
One of them, a towering brunette, throws out an arm to stop the others from rushing forward. “Whoa,” she says, her eyes on James, taking in the blood painted down his body. “Hey, are you okay?”
Then, again:
Another clutch of bodies surges toward us—at least ten more—and my heart rate accelerates as I take them all in, doing quick
calculations in my head. My chances of fighting my way out of here are slowly decreasing to zero.
Alarm detonates inside me.