Chapter Four #2
“No,” I finally say, and it’s the truth. “I think I’m more relieved that at least one of us will know what they’re doing.”
Kit kisses me again, slow and warm and deep and everything we are. “Just tell me what feels good and what doesn’t,” he whispers against my mouth, even as his hand slides underneath the hem of my shirt, splaying over my lower back.
“Okay,” I say with a shiver. “You do the same, all right?”
“I will,” he promises. “We’ll figure it out together.”
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, finding a sweet spot on my neck and nurturing it long enough to help me out of my top entirely. I let out a soft sound that might actually be a moan, and he discards my shirt before pulling off his own.
“If you want to stop, all you have to do is say so,” he whispers, his words warm and husky against my skin. “It doesn’t matter what we’re doing, or if we’re already…It doesn’t matter. We’ll stop immediately, I swear.”
But as his lips start a trail down my bra strap, past the healing red scar of the bullet wound that barely missed my heart, one thing quickly becomes clear: Despite the inevitable prickle of nerves and anticipation, despite the memories of unwelcomed hands on me that will always linger in the darkest parts of my mind, I don’t want Kit to stop.
I don’t ever want him to stop.
—
That afternoon, while Kit and I are still curled together, half-asleep and lost in our own world, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I ignore it at first, but then it buzzes again. And again. And again. There are only so many people I’m willing to talk to while we’re in Oxford—even fewer who want anything to do with me—and the most important one is tracing invisible patterns on my stomach.
“Ignore it,” I mumble as Kit shifts beside me, and even though my eyes are closed, I can feel him reaching for my phone.
“Could be important,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “Could be your mum.”
“She doesn’t use phones unless she has to,” I say with a yawn, and only then do I open my eyes and take the offered mobile from him. I blink at the screen, then blink again as another message appears, and I sit straight up in bed.
“It’s Tibby,” I say, my heart racing as I scramble to untangle my limbs from both Kit and the sheets. “I need to go.”
“What?” Kit rises beside me, his wavy hair sticking up at odd angles. “Why? What’s happened?”
“I don’t know.” I stumble out of bed and run to the dresser, yanking out the first outfit I touch. “It’s an emergency text. She wants to meet me now.”
“She can’t tell you what it is over the phone?” says Kit, baffled.
“Ben has this number,” I point out as I dress faster than I ever have before. “Might be tapped.”
Kit grimaces and pushes the covers away. “I’ll go with you.”
I shake my head, already bending down to pull on my socks. “It’s too close to your lecture hall. The paparazzi might spot you. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”
Fear flickers in his eyes, but he stands and scoops my wild hair out from the collar of my sweatshirt. “Be safe,” he says, and I pause long enough to give him a deep, lingering kiss.
“I will,” I promise. And with my heart in my throat, I race out of our bedroom, knowing better than to expect anything but the worst.
—
I burst into the familiar courtyard less than fifteen minutes later, my pulse racing and my oversized scarf unwinding from my neck, trailing after me in the dingy slush.
Tibby is waiting on a bench with two thermoses, looking completely unbothered, and I’m so taken aback that I glance around, like there might be a second Tibby I’m missing who’s tearing her own hair out with worry.
“What’s wrong?” I blurt, hurrying toward her. “Is Alexander—is he—”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” she says, offering me one of the thermoses. I take it, but only because it’s blocking my view of her face.
“What’s going on?” I press. “Why did you text me 9-9-9?”
She definitely doesn’t look like she’s had to rearrange her day for some kind of emergency, and she takes a sip of her drink before answering. “I thought you’d like to know that His Majesty is waking up.”
My stomach does a strange somersault. “He is?” On one hand, this is what we’ve all been waiting and hoping for—for my father to finally regain consciousness after nearly dying in the bombing several weeks ago. On the other, as much as I even hate myself for thinking it…
“He is,” says Tibby curtly. “Jenkins expects him to start asking about you in short order, and as soon as he does—”
“Jenkins will tell him the truth.” Which means that our days in Oxford are numbered. I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. “How is he? Can he speak? Does he recognize anyone? Are his eyes open? Has he had any more surgeries—”
Tibby sniffs. “I am not privy to His Majesty’s medical status, nor should I be, considering I am not family.”
“What is family, if not fifth or sixth cousins descended from one of the most inbred lines in Europe?” I say, and Tibby gives me a look that would make a mountain shudder. I, on the other hand, am immune. “Is that all? Because I need to get back—”
“To what, precisely?” says Tibby, eyebrow raised. “Have they finally given you something useful to do?”
I open and shut my mouth. “You know I can’t talk about it.”
“Of course not,” she says in a tone that makes it clear she’s humoring me. “Are you certain you’re here to actually serve a purpose, or is it possible you’re more like a team mascot?”
Her words sting like a slap to the face, and I have to bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret. “I’m here because I have to be. That’s all you’re allowed to know.”
“Mm, of course,” says Tibby, taking another sip from her thermos. “Do let me know when this is all declassified, will you? I’m very much looking forward to learning which Netflix series you’re watching amidst…whatever it is you and Kit are supposedly doing.”
I clench my jaw. “Tell Jenkins to delay for as long as he can. Please,” I say tightly, and that’s all I leave her with before I storm to the courtyard exit.
As soon as I’m on the other side of the stone tunnel, I slip into the crowd of students making their way to and from their afternoon lectures—which Kit decided to skip, no doubt to the disappointment of the paparazzi gathered to chronicle his daily walk of shame—and start back toward our flat building, ignoring the three personal protection officers tailing my every move.
Before I can take more than a few steps, however, goose bumps appear on my arms, and a prickling sensation spreads across my flushing skin, as if I’ve stuck a fork in an electrical socket.
Someone’s watching me. Someone who isn’t supposed to know I’m here.
I suppress the instinct to peek over my shoulder and tip off my voyeur.
Instead, I use the windows and storefronts I pass to get a good look at my surroundings, and it’s only when I pause to supposedly admire a display of books about Oxford’s history do I spot a flash of a familiar teal scarf and maleficent stare.
The man who was protesting the monarchy outside of Sandringham at Christmas.
The man who was watching during the stampede outside the hospital when my sister and I were almost trampled.
The man who stood in the crowd of the Modern Music Museum opening, minutes before the bomb went off, watching me like he knew I wouldn’t walk out of that building. Because he did.
Guy Fawkes. The leader of Fox Rex and the Army of the British Republic.
The so-called mastermind behind the attack that murdered eight people and nearly assassinated my father.
The terrorist who, along with Dylan, tried to kill me for over a month, only to publicly claim me as one of them so the entire world hates me as much as they do.
He’s following me.
This time, I can’t stop myself from whirling around, my heart pounding as I search the sidewalk opposite me. He was there—right between two groups of students, one clutching cups of coffee and the other laughing so loudly I can hear them over the traffic.
But he isn’t anymore. He’s gone.
I’m imagining things. I have to be. Fox Rex and the Abr have no idea where Kit and I live, so there’s no way they could’ve followed me from the flat.
And the chances of Guy or Dylan finding me in a city like Oxford, especially when there’s nothing to differentiate me from the thousands of students wandering around—it’s impossible. I’m being paranoid.
Taking a deep breath, I slow my pace to something leisurely and pretend I’m window-shopping. Books on the history of Oxford, handmade toys, colorful desserts that look like art—they’re all suddenly fascinating to me as I use every reflection and break in the crowd to watch for Guy Fawkes, until—
He’s there again, another flash of teal on the corner. And this time, when I look, he’s staring directly at me, his features almost completely obscured by his telltale scarf. Except for those dark, gold-rimmed eyes I’d recognize anywhere.
Fury wells up inside me, shoving my fear aside. Fury for the people he killed. For what he did to my father, my family, to Kit—for what he’s still trying to do to all of us. And when I run, it’s not away from him. Instead, it’s directly toward him.
I barely bother to look as I dart across the street, dodging traffic like a wild animal with no concept of my own mortality.
Curiosity flickers across his face, and then, as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone, ducking into a narrow alley.
I reach it only seconds later, racing across the damp cobblestones, but when I emerge on the other side, he’s vanished. Almost as if I imagined him.
But I know I didn’t. And I keep running, up this busy road and the one beyond, through another side street and down the crowded pavement, until my clothes are damp with sweat and I’ve lost my way completely.
There’s no sign of him anywhere, but I can still feel his burning stare, as if he’s watching me from the shadows and silently laughing.
Or maybe, for the first time, he might finally be scared.
“Coward!” I shout, and the insult echoes off the old brick buildings. Several people nearby give me strange looks, but I don’t care. Without glancing back, I shove my hands in my pockets and walk toward the only PPO who’s managed to keep up with me, holding my head a little higher.
I’m done being afraid of him. It’s time for him to be afraid of me.