Chapter 25 Rosabelle
Rosabelle
“As you can see,” she’s saying, “the house is pretty small. It’s more of a cottage, really. I still need to fix the roof.
The recent storm took off a few shingles, but we got lucky, because there was no water damage inside. There are two bedrooms.
Your bathroom doubles as the guest bathroom, which means there’s no private access—”
I sit down inside of myself.
I find a dark corner in my head and make myself small, drawing my metaphorical knees to my metaphorical chest. Here, in this
constructed quiet, I allow myself to feel the real speed of my heart, the true temperature of my blood, the actual levels
of my hunger—and the findings are worse than I feared. Catastrophic.
I need to be alone.
I desperately want to talk to James.
Rationally, these two desires seem to be in direct conflict; emotionally, they make a strange sense to me.
The rebels’ only reliable move has been to keep James away from me. When he was finally ordered to leave my hospital room,
his older brother turned his full attention in my direction, studying me with an unsettling focus, letting the proceeding
silence consume us both.
Being alone with Warner reactivated my panic.
I couldn’t hold his searching gaze for long. I turned to the closed door, my broken eyes searching for the ghost of James.
He promised he’d see me later.
I don’t know what that means. I don’t think he can or should make me such promises. And I still don’t understand how he can act so comfortable or
casual around Warner.
The elder Anderson brother continues to be terrifying.
“I’d like to know what happened,” he’d said softly, looming over me. “How did you wake yourself up?”
I kept my eyes on the door.
Because, Rosa.
I only dream of the dead.
“Where did you go when you were gone? Why was it so painful to return?”
I only dream of the dead.
“Did James heal you?” Warner asked me. “Is that why you were able to recover?”
Slowly, I turned to look at him.
His piercing green eyes were dazzling in the glare of my distorted vision, his hair a golden nimbus around his head. His skin
was luminous. All his edges had been buffed away, softened into something diaphanous and ethereal. He looked almost angelic.
Leaning in, he said, “I think it’s time for you to get to know me, Rosabelle. So I’m going to tell you a secret.”
At that, I stiffened.
“If I discover that your intentions here include seducing my brother in order to manipulate him, I will personally oversee the methodical evisceration of your existence.”
My heart hammered in my chest.
“You’ve infiltrated the wrong family. Betray him, and I will break your soul. If you run, I will hunt you. Retreat will be
impossible. There will be no forgiveness. I will not allow you to surrender. I’ll make you beg for the days of torture you
enjoyed under The Reestablishment—”
The sudden slam of a door returns me violently to myself. I turn toward the source of the sound to find that someone new has
entered the house: a tall man in glasses.
He’s framed in the entrance.
Nazeera reappears, having disappeared into the bedroom she claimed was mine. She shoots me an exasperated look and says, “What
the hell? I thought you were trying to leave.” She looks me up and down. “But you haven’t even moved, have you?”
The door slams again, this time slamming shut, and Nazeera realizes, too late, that there’s someone else in her house. Common
sense would dictate that she be more concerned with an intruder entering her home, but for reasons unknown, this fact doesn’t
appear to alarm her.
She’s too cavalier.
I might’ve made a run for the door in her absence. I might’ve grabbed the screwdriver—
“Hey,” says the intruder, lifting a hand.
He’s not armed.
In fact, he looks like the kind of person who’s perpetually annoyed to be awake. He’s wearing a slouchy sweater, a pair of thoroughly worn jeans, and battered sneakers. His sandy-blond hair is unkempt. His dark frames are crooked.
His anxiety is palpable.
He glances from me to Nazeera, his eyes lingering on the weapon slung across her chest. “So, uh, why am I here?” he asks her.
“Because I really, really don’t want to be here.” His eyes dart to me. “No offense.”
My eyes widen a fraction.
“I need help,” Nazeera says, gesturing to the house. “I have no furniture.” She nods to me. “The girl needs clothes.” She
points at the kitchen. “I have no groceries. I didn’t have enough time to pull anything together before she was discharged,
and I ended up buying a pack of sponges, a single orange, and a wedge of cheese. I’m drowning.”
The stranger takes this in, shoves his hands in his pockets, nods for a long moment, then says—
“Nope, bye.”
And pivots toward the door.
Nazeera is fast; she physically catches him by the back of his collar, reeling him back into the room.
He cries out in protest.
“Winston,” she insists. “Today is your day off—”
“Exactly,” he says, wrenching away from her. “I’m supposed to be sitting on the couch, alone, judging people on television
from the privacy of my own home. Ideally, there’d be ice cream involved.”
Nazeera frowns. “What people on television?”
He sighs dramatically. “The local network puts on these tragic family-friendly theatrical shows and the musical numbers are
campy and horrible. The dancers wear so much polyester—”
“You’re bailing on me to watch some crappy public programming channel?” She cuts him off in outrage. “Are you serious? This
is a high-priority security issue—consider it a duty to your nation—”
“No, thanks,” he says, and takes a step back, adjusting his sweater as he looks around. “I don’t want to be here with you
in your depressing, empty house and your gun necklace and your pet serial killer.” He glances at me again. “Seriously, no
offense. I’m sure your parents are very supportive of your lifestyle.”
His indifference is shocking.
“But I really need your help,” Nazeera says. “I have to buy a shit ton of things and everyone else is busy or unauthorized
to assist. I was going to ask Kian but he doesn’t have clearance at this level.” She tilts her head, thinking. “Hey, do you
think we can borrow Adam’s truck?”
Winston scowls.
“Why don’t you ask James?” he says. He takes off his glasses, using the hem of his sweater to clean the lenses as he looks
around, grimacing. “He loves projects like this.”
“No way,” she says. “James can’t know I’m struggling. He’s not on the team. He’s a nonbeliever.”
Winston rolls his eyes. “James would kill for the chance to light a scented candle in this place. He’s wanted to buy you a lamp for years.
You’re the kind of monster who turns on all the overhead lights, and you don’t even care that you’re using light bulbs with the cold color temperature of a hospital. You have terrible taste—”
“Excuse me?”
“Let me finish,” Winston says, holding up a hand. He takes another second to polish his glasses before putting them on. Then,
with a flourish: “You have terrible taste.”
Nazeera gasps.
“Yeah, sorry,” he says, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “That was a complete sentence. I meant what I said.”
“Whatever, asshole,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I have great taste.”
“In fashion? Maybe.”
She physically recoils. “Maybe?”
“If you’re going to hang out with aliens, absolutely. Wear the silver fringed patent leather trench coat.”
She gasps again. “You told me you loved that coat!”
“You have no idea how to build a nest,” he says, backing closer to the door. “You don’t know how to arrange a room around
a rug, or use paint color to soothe instead of injure. Quick quiz: Do any of these words sound familiar to you? Sconce. Credenza. Console table. Ambience. étagère—”
“Now you’re just trying to make me feel bad.”
He nods, glancing at the door. “Is it working?”
“How can you be so pretentious when I’m literally asking for help?”
“I don’t have time to be your mentor, Nazeera. Call James.”
“I will not call James—”
“Get over your pride. He’s surprisingly good at this stuff, and he’s obviously obsessed with the serial killer—”
“My name is Rosabelle,” I say sharply.
Nazeera and Winston freeze. They turn in tandem to face me, shock printed upon both their faces.
“Weird,” says Winston. “I almost forgot she was here.”
Nazeera stares. “That’s actually the first time she’s said anything since she got here.”
The door slams open again.
This time, the shift is palpable. I sense him before I see him, the veils between myself and the world thinning nearly at
once. My heart picks up as James walks through the door, and I understand then, with a clarity I’ve never felt before, that
being near him is worse than dangerous.
Being near him will get me killed.
I take a terrified step back as he enters, his eyes finding mine immediately. Desperate fear and wild, unbridled joy suffuse
my body, confusing me, sending me into a panic. He walks into the kitchen, slams something down on the counter, and heads
in my direction with electric focus.
I suddenly can’t breathe.
“Whoa, James—”
Nazeera steps in front of him, as if to stop him, and he’s close enough now that I can practically see how hard he’s working
to tamp down a sparking, volatile energy, his chest lifting as he looks at her, then looks at me.
“Nazeera,” he says quietly. “You know I love you. But get out of my way.”
“What—why? What’s happening? Who are you right now?”
James shakes his head, then sidesteps her quickly enough that she’s still trying to catch up as he closes the distance between
us, charging toward me with renewed purpose.
I feel the floor shift beneath me.
Somehow I’m rooted here, still standing, my heart beating out of my chest. I don’t know why he’s here. I can’t make sense
of the look on his face. I can’t tell whether he’s angry or terrified or—
He pulls me into his arms on a shaky breath, exhaling hard as our bodies collide.
I make an aching, involuntary sound.
The warmth and strength of him closes around me, the scent of him flooding my head as he braces me against his chest. My dead
senses flare dangerously back to life.
I sink into him.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
There’s nothing left to protect me from this.
The scaffolding falls away from my spirit; my body comes undone. In his arms I release myself from my many prisons into the
abyss of my own fears and he catches me, holding me closer, tighter, his breath warm against my hair. I feel too much of my
heart. I feel too much of my soul. I’m suddenly shaking and starving. Aching.
So tired.
So tired.
I’m dizzy with fatigue. My eyes focus and unfocus. I blink and hold, then release. Blink and hold.
Release.
Pain radiates across my body, my heart thundering in my chest. Hunger claws violently at my gut. The healing process always
replenishes my vital needs, usually regenerating my body to a nearly normal state; but I can’t remember the last time I ate
anything solid. More than that, I feel as if I haven’t slept in weeks. Wherever I was these last three days, it’s clear enough
now that I wasn’t resting. The world spins, tilting under me.
My knees give out.
I crumple against him and he catches me, his reflexes sharp as he gathers me up into his arms with ease. I sense his astonishment
in the aftermath; his fear; his chest moving too fast as my head lands softly against his heart. He’s carrying me like it’s
effortless.
Like he’s done it before.
“Rosabelle,” he says breathlessly. “What just happened?”
So tired.
I blink and hold, release.
“Rosabelle,” he says again. “Are you okay?”
Anger exposes itself as pain. Silence exposes itself as fear. Distance exposes itself as armor.
Blink and hold. Release.
Blink and hold—
“Rosabelle?”
I fall, suddenly, asleep.