this?” he says, appalled. “These words? This explanation? You chose him because he’s kind to you? Because he’s offered you basic charity ?”
I’m suddenly angry.
I’m suddenly mortified.
I’m outraged by the permission Warner’s granted himself to judge my life—that he thought he’d been generous by stepping aside. I narrow my eyes, clench my fists. “It’s not charity,” I snap. “He cares about me—and I care about him!”
Warner nods, unimpressed. “You should get a dog, love. I hear they share much the same qualities.”
“You are unbelievable!” I shove myself upward, scrambling to my feet and regretting it. I have to cling to the bed frame to steady myself. “My relationship with Adam is none of your business!”
“Your relationship ?” Warner laughs, loud. He moves quickly to face me from the other side of the bed, leaving several feet between us. “What relationship? Does he even know anything about you? Does he understand you? Does he know your wants, your fears, the truth you conceal in your heart?”
“Oh, and what? You do?”
“You know damn well that I do!” he shouts, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “And I’m willing to bet my life that he has no idea what you’re really like. You tiptoe around his feelings, pretending to be a nice little girl for him, don’t you? You’re afraid of scaring him off. You’re afraid of telling him too much—”
“You don’t know anything !”
“Oh I know,” he says, rushing forward. “I understand perfectly. He’s fallen for your quiet, timid shell. For who you used to be. He has no idea what you’re capable of. What you might do if you’re pushed too far.” His hand slips behind my neck; he leans in until our lips are only inches apart.
What is happening to my lungs.
“You’re a coward,” he whispers. “You want to be with me and it terrifies you. And you’re ashamed,” he says. “Ashamed you could ever want someone like me. Aren’t you?” He drops his gaze and his nose grazes mine and I can almost count the millimeters between our lips. I’m struggling to focus, trying to remember that I’m mad at him, mad about something, but his mouth is right in front of mine and my mind can’t stop trying to figure out how to shove aside the space between us.
“You want me,” he says softly, his hands moving up my back, “and it’s killing you.”
I jerk backward, breaking away, hating my body for reacting to him, for falling apart like this. My joints feel flimsy, my legs have lost their bones. I need oxygen, need a brain, need to find my lungs—
“You deserve so much more than charity,” he says, his chest heaving. “You deserve to live. You deserve to be alive.” He’s staring at me, unblinking.
“Come back to life, love. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
I wake up on my stomach.
My face is buried in the pillows, my arms hugging their soft contours. I blink steadily, my bleary eyes taking in my surroundings, trying to remember where I am. I squint into the brightness of the day. My hair falls into my face as I lift my head to look around.
“Good morning.”
I startle for no good reason, sitting up too quickly and clutching a pillow to my chest for an equally inexplicable reason. Warner is standing at the foot of the bed, fully dressed. He’s wearing black pants and a slate-green sweater that clings to the shape of his body, the sleeves pushed up his forearms. His hair is perfect. His eyes are alert, awake, impossibly brightened by the green of his shirt. And he’s holding a steaming mug in his hand. Smiling at me.
I offer him a limp wave.
“Coffee?” he asks, offering me the mug.
I stare at it, doubtful. “I’ve never had coffee before.”
“It isn’t terrible,” he says with a shrug. “Delalieu is obsessed with it. Isn’t that right, Delalieu?”
I jerk backward on the bed, my head nearly hitting the wall behind me.
An older, kindly-looking gentleman smiles at me from the corner of the room. His thin brown hair and twitchy mustache look vaguely familiar to me, as if I’ve seen him on base before. I notice he’s standing next to a breakfast cart. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you, Miss Ferrars,” he says. His voice is a little shaky, but not at all intimidating. His eyes are unexpectedly sincere. “The coffee really is quite good,” he says. “I have it every day. Though I always have m-mine with—”
“Cream and sugar,” Warner says with a wry smile, his eyes laughing as if at some private joke. “Yes. Though I’m afraid the sugar is a bit too much for me. I find I prefer the bitterness.” He glances at me again. “The choice is yours.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Breakfast,” Warner says, his eyes revealing nothing. “I thought you might be hungry.”
“It’s okay that he’s here?” I whisper, knowing full well that Delalieu can hear me. “That he knows I’m here?”
Warner nods. Offers me no other explanation.
“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll try the coffee.”
I crawl across the bed to reach for the mug, and Warner’s eyes follow my movements, traveling from my face to the shape of my body to the rumpled pillows and sheets beneath my hands and knees. When he finally meets my eyes he looks away too quickly, handing me the mug only to put an entire room between us.
“So how much does Delalieu know?” I ask, glancing at the older gentleman.
“What do you mean?” Warner raises an eyebrow.
“Well, does he know that I’m leaving?” I raise an eyebrow, too. Warner stares. “You promised you’d get me off base,” I say to him, “and I’m hoping Delalieu is here to help you with that. Though if it’s too much trouble, I’m always happy to take the window.” I cock my head. “It worked out well the last time.”
Warner narrows his eyes at me, his lips a thin line. He’s still glaring when he nods at the breakfast cart beside him. “This is how we’re getting you out of here today.”
I choke on my first sip of coffee. “What?”
“It’s the easiest, most efficient solution,” Warner says. “You’re small and lightweight, you can easily fold yourself into a tight space, and the cloth panels will keep you hidden from sight. I’m often working in my room,” he says. “Delalieu brings me my breakfast trays from time to time. No one will suspect anything unusual.”
I look at Delalieu for some kind of confirmation.
He nods eagerly.
“How did you get me here in the first place?” I ask. “Why can’t we just do the same thing?”
Warner studies one of the breakfast plates. “I’m afraid that option is no longer available to us.”
“What do you mean?” My body seizes with a sudden anxiety. “How did you get me in here?”
“You weren’t exactly conscious,” he says. “We had to be a little more . . . creative.”
“Delalieu.”
The old man looks up at the sound of my voice, clearly surprised to be addressed so directly. “Yes, miss?”
“How did you get me into the building?”
Delalieu glances at Warner, whose gaze is now firmly fixed on the wall. Delalieu looks