Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Her mouth opens. She’s trying to say something, lips forming around a word, but nothing comes out except a choked rasp. Her face is going red, eyes too large, and still, I can’t make myself stop. Can’t find the off switch. Can’t—
She stops struggling.
For one, horrifying instant, I think I’ve killed her.
Then, her hand shoots up and two fingers drive hard into the soft hollow at the base of my throat.
Right into my windpipe.
I gag. My grip releases instinctively as I rear back, gasping, and in that same instant, she brings her palm up under my chin, snapping my head back. The blow would break a normal man’s neck. For me, it’s just enough to create space.
She scrambles out from under me, coughing, gulping air, and I’m about to lunge after her, hunt her down when—
“Milkshake.” The word tears out of her ravaged throat—hoarse, desperate, but loud enough to fill the room. “Milkshake, milkshake, milkshake—”
I freeze, every muscle locking. The darkness—
It recedes. Slowly, like a tide going out, leaving behind only horror.
She’s pressed against the headboard now, one hand at her throat, the other raised in front of her like she’s ready to fight again. Ready to defend herself.
From me.
Some distant part of my brain registers what just happened. That wasn’t a panicked move. That was training. She was precise with her hit. She knew the right pressure points to disable an attacker who outweighs you by at least a hundred pounds. Where and when did Mia learn to do this?
But the thought evaporates almost as soon as it forms, incinerated by the sheer magnitude of what I almost did.
I gasp, a long, ragged inhale, and scramble backward off the bed, nearly falling, my back hitting the wall. I’m shaking, actually shaking, tremors running through my whole body like I’ve been electrocuted.
“Mia—fuck—I didn’t—”
There are red marks on her skin where my fingers were. Red marks I put there.
“It’s okay,” she says, but her voice is hoarse and her eyes say otherwise. “I’m okay.”
“It’s not okay,” I say feebly, pathetically. I slide down the wall, my legs giving out, and end up on the floor with my head in my hands. “I hurt you. I almost—fuck, Mia, I almost—”
“But you didn’t.” She’s off the bed now, approaching me slowly, like I’m a wild animal she’s not sure is safe. A predator in disguise. “You stopped. When I said the word, you stopped.”
“Only after you fought back,” I say, my voice cracking. “I shouldn’t have needed the word! I should have seen, I should have known—” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to push back the sting of tears. “Something’s wrong with me. Whatever they did during the calibration, whatever—I’m not—I don’t—”
But isn’t this you? a voice says. Isn’t this truly what you are, deep down?
Her hand touches my shoulder. Gentle. Tentative.
“Nate. Vanguard. Look at me.”
I shake my head. I can’t. I can’t look at her and see the marks I left.
“Please.”
Slowly, I drop my hands and force myself to meet her eyes.
She’s scared. She’s trying to hide it, but I can see it—the slight tremor in her hands, the way she’s keeping just a little more distance than she usually would. And beneath the fear, there’s something else, like she’s recategorizing me in her mind.
Monster. Threat. Weapon.
What was one of the very first things she ever said to me, at that gala in London?
“I think you’re a weapon.”
What if she was right?
What if everyone was right about me, and I’m the last one to know?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I know.” She swallows, wincing at the movement. “I know you are.”
Silence stretches between us, the room feeling small while the distance between us seems to grow. Outside, the city hums along, oblivious to what has broken inside.
“Maybe you should go,” I say finally. “I don’t…I don’t trust myself right now.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then, she stands, moving to the chair where her clothes are draped.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she says.
I nod, my throat feeling too thick to speak.
She quickly gets dressed, and at the bedroom door, she pauses, looking back.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “You know that? Whatever they did to you, it wasn’t your fault.”
Then, she’s gone.
I sit on the floor of my bedroom, naked and shaking, staring at my hands. The hands that held her. The hands that hurt her. The hands that might have killed her if she hadn’t found the strength to fight back, if she hadn’t screamed that stupid word.
Milkshake.
I laugh. It comes out broken, a half-sob.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice that sounds like my own whispers:
Integration complete. Awaiting directives.
I don’t know what it means.
But I know I’m going to find out.
Even if it’s the last thing I do.
CHAPTER 31
MIA
I study my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror, tilting my chin to catch the light. The bruises on my throat have faded to a sickly yellow-green that foundation barely camouflages, and nothing a scarf can’t cover. But I know they’re there. Every time I swallow, I feel the ghost of his fingers pressing down.