Ignite Me

  Castle pulls me into a fierce hug, and Brendan and Winston and Lily and Ian and Alia jump on top of him, crushing me all at once. They’re cheering and clapping and shaking my hand and I’ve never felt so much support or so much strength in our group before. No moment in my life has ever been more extraordinary than this.

  But when the congratulations ebb and the good-nights begin, I pull Kenji aside for one last hug.

  “So,” I say to him, rocking on my heels. “I can touch anyone I want now.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He laughs, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Do you know what that means?”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  “You know what this means, right?”

  “Because I’m flattered, really, but I still think we’re much better off as friends—”

  “Kenji.”

  He grins. Musses my hair. “No,” he says. “I don’t know. What does it mean?”

  “It means a million things,” I say to him, standing on tiptoe to look him in the eye. “But it also means that now I will never end up with anyone by default. I can do anything I want now. Be with anyone I want. And it’ll be my choice.”

  Kenji just looks at me for a long time. Smiles. Finally, he drops his eyes. Nods.

  And says, “Go do what you gotta do, J.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  When I get off the elevator and step into Warner’s office, all the lights are off. Everything is swimming in an inky sort of black, and it takes me several tries to adjust my eyes to the darkness. I pad my way through the office carefully, searching for any sign of its owner, and find none.

  I head into the bedroom.

  Warner is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his coat thrown on the floor, his boots kicked off to the side. He’s sitting in silence, palms up on his lap, looking into his hands like he’s searching for something he cannot find.

  “Aaron?” I whisper, moving forward.

  He lifts his head. Looks at me.

  And something inside of me shatters.

  Every vertebra, every knuckle, both kneecaps, both hips. I am a pile of bones on the floor and no one knows it but me. I am a broken skeleton with a beating heart.

  Exhale, I tell myself.

  Exhale.

  “I’m so sorry,” are the first words I whisper.

  He nods. Gets to his feet.

  “Thank you,” he says to no one at all as he walks out the door.

  I follow him across the bedroom and into his office. Call out his name.

  He stops in front of the boardroom table, his back to me, his hands gripping the edge. “Please, Juliette, not tonight, I can’t—”

  “You’re right,” I finally say. “You’ve always been right.”

  He turns around, so slowly.

  I’m looking into his eyes and I’m suddenly petrified. I’m suddenly nervous and suddenly worried and suddenly so sure I’m going to do this all wrong but maybe wrong is the only way to do it because I can’t keep it to myself anymore. There are so many things I need to tell him. Things I’ve been too much of a coward to admit, even to myself.

  “Right about what?” His green eyes are wide. Scared.

  I hold my fingers to my mouth, still so afraid to speak.

  I do so much with these lips, I think.

  I taste and touch and kiss and I’ve pressed them to the tender parts of his skin and I’ve made promises and told lies and touched lives all with these two lips and the words they form, the shapes and sounds they curve around. But right now my lips wish he would just read my mind because the truth is I’ve been hoping I’d never have to say any of it, these thoughts, out loud.

  “I do want you,” I say to him, my voice shaking. “I want you so much it scares me.”

  I see the movement in his throat, the effort he’s making to keep still. His eyes are terrified.

  “I lied to you,” I tell him, words tripping and stumbling out of me. “That night. When I said I didn’t want to be with you. I lied. Because you were right. I was a coward. I didn’t want to admit the truth to myself, and I felt so guilty for preferring you, for wanting to spend all my time with you, even when everything was falling apart. I was confused about Adam, I was confused about who I was supposed to be and I didn’t know what I was doing and I was stupid,” I say. “I was stupid and inconsiderate and I tried to blame it on you and I hurt you, so badly.” I try to breathe. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

  “What—” Warner is blinking fast. His voice is fragile, uneven. “What are you saying?”

  “I love you,” I whisper. “I love you exactly as you are.”

  Warner is looking at me like he might be going deaf and blind at the same time. “No,” he gasps. One broken, broken word. Barely even a sound. He’s shaking his head and he’s looking away from me and his hand is caught in his hair, his body turned toward the table and he says “No. No, no—”

  “Aaron—”

  “No,” he says, backing away. “No, you don’t know what you’re saying—”

  “I love you,” I tell him again. “I love you and I want you and I wanted you then,” I say to him, “I wanted you so much and I still want you, I want you right now—”

  Stop.

  Stop time.

  Stop the world.

  Stop everything for the moment he crosses the room and pulls me into his arms and pins me against the wall and I’m spinning and standing and not even breathing but I’m alive so alive so very very alive

  and he’s kissing me.

  Deeply, desperately. His hands are around my waist and he’s breathing so hard and he hoists me up, into his arms, and my legs wrap around his hips and he’s kissing my neck, my throat, and he sets me down on the edge of the boardroom table.

  He has one hand under my neck, the other under my shirt and he’s running his fingers up my back and suddenly his thigh is between my legs and his hand is slipping behind my knee and up, higher, pulling me closer, and when he breaks the kiss I’m breathing so fast, head spinning as I try to hold on to him.

  “Up,” he says, gasping for air. “Lift your arms up.”

  I do.

  He tugs up my shirt. Pulls it over my head. Tosses it to the floor.

  “Lie back,” he says to me, still breathing hard, guiding me onto the table as his hands slide down my spine, under my backside. He unbuttons my jeans. Unzips them. Says, “Lift your hips for me, love,” and hooks his fingers around the waist of my pants and my underwear at the same time. Tugs them down.

  I gasp.

  I’m lying on his table in nothing but my bra.

  Then that’s gone, too.

  His hands are moving up my legs and the insides of my thighs and his lips are making their way down my chest, and he’s undoing what little is left of my composure and every bit of my sanity and I’m aching, everywhere, tasting colors and sounds I didn’t even know existed. My head is pressed back against the table and my hands are gripping his shoulders and he’s hot, everywhere, gentle and somehow so urgent, and I’m trying not to scream and he’s already moving down my body, he’s already chosen where to kiss me. How to kiss me.

  And he’s not going to stop.

  I’m beyond rational thought. Beyond words, beyond comprehensible ideas. Seconds are merging into minutes and hearts are collapsing and hands are grasping and I’ve tripped over a planet and I don’t know anything anymore, I don’t know anything because nothing will ever be able to compare to this. Nothing will ever capture the way I’m feeling right now.

  Nothing matters anymore.

  Nothing but this moment and his mouth on my body, his hands on my skin, his kisses in brand-new places making me absolutely, certifiably insane. I cry out and cling to him, dying and somehow being brought back to life in the same moment, the same breath.

  He’s on his knees.

  I bite back the moan caught in my throat just before he lifts me up and carries me to the bed. He’s on top of me in an instant, kissing me with a kind of intensity that makes me
wonder why I haven’t died or caught on fire or woken up from this dream yet. He’s running his hands down my body only to bring them back up to my face and he kisses me once, twice, and his teeth catch my bottom lip for just a second and I’m clinging to him, wrapping my arms around his neck and running my hands through his hair and pulling him into me. He tastes so sweet. So hot and so sweet and I keep trying to say his name but I can’t even find the time to breathe, much less to say a single word.

  I shove him up, off me.

  I undo his shirt, my hands shaking and fumbling with the buttons and I get so frustrated I just rip it open, buttons flying everywhere, and I don’t have a chance to push the fabric off his body before he pulls me into his lap. He wraps my legs around his hips and dips me backward until the mattress is under my head and he leans over me, cupping my face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses around my mouth and he pulls me close and he kisses me, kisses me until time topples over and my head spins into oblivion.

  It’s a heavy, unbelievable kiss.

  It’s the kind of kiss that inspires stars to climb into the sky and light up the world. The kind that takes forever and no time at all. His hands are holding my cheeks, and he pulls back just to look me in the eye and his chest is heaving and he says, “I think,” he says, “my heart is going to explode,” and I wish, more than ever, that I knew how to capture moments like these and revisit them forever.

  Because this.

  This is everything.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Warner has been asleep all morning.

  He didn’t wake up to work out. Didn’t wake up to shower. Didn’t wake up to do anything. He’s just lying here, on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow.

  I’ve been awake since 8:00 a.m., and I’ve been staring at him for two hours.

  He’s usually up at five thirty. Sometimes earlier.

  I worry that he might’ve missed a lot of important things by now. I have no idea if he has meetings or specific places to be today. I don’t know if he’s ruined his schedule by being asleep so late. I don’t know if anyone will come to check on him. I have no idea.

  I do know that I don’t want to wake him.

  We were up very late last night.

  I run my fingers down his back, still confused by the word IGNITE tattooed on his skin, and train my eyes to see his scars as something other than the terrifying abuse he’s suffered his whole life. I can’t handle the horrible truth of it. I curl my body around his, rest my face against his back, my arms holding fast to his sides. I drop a kiss on his spine. I can feel him breathing, in and out, so evenly. So steadily.

  Warner shifts, just a little.

  I sit up.

  He rolls over slowly, still half asleep. Uses the back of one fist to rub his eyes. Blinks several times. And then he sees me.

  Smiles.

  It’s a sleepy, sleepy smile.

  I can’t help but smile back. I feel like I’ve been split open and stuffed with sunshine. I’ve never seen a sleepy Warner before. Never woken up in his arms. Never seen him be anything but awake and alert and sharp.

  He looks almost lazy right now.

  It’s adorable.

  “Come here,” he says, reaching for me.

  I crawl into his arms and cling, and he holds me tight against him. Drops a kiss on the top of my head. Whispers, “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  “I like that,” I say quietly, smiling even though he can’t see it. “I like it when you call me sweetheart.”

  He laughs then, his shoulders shaking as he does. He rolls onto his back, arms stretched out at his sides.

  God, he looks so good without his clothes on.

  “I have never slept so well in my entire life,” he says softly. He grins, eyes still closed. Dimples on both cheeks. “I feel so strange.”

  “You slept for a long time,” I tell him, lacing his fingers in mine.

  He peeks at me through one eye. “Did I?”

  I nod. “It’s late. It’s already ten thirty.”

  He stiffens. “Really?”

  I nod again. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  He sighs. “I’m afraid I should get going then. Delalieu has likely had an aneurysm.”

  A pause.

  “Aaron,” I say tentatively. “Who is Delalieu, exactly? Why is he so trustworthy with all of this?”

  A deep breath. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”

  “Is that all . . . ?” I ask, leaning back to look him in the eye. “He knows so much about us and what we’re doing and it worries me sometimes. I thought you said all your soldiers hated you. Shouldn’t you be suspicious? Trust him less?”

  “Yes,” he says quietly, “you’d think I would.”

  “But you don’t.”

  Warner meets my eyes. Softens his voice. “He’s my mother’s father, love.”

  I stiffen in an instant, jerking back. “What?”

  Warner looks up at the ceiling.

  “He’s your grandfather?” I’m sitting up in bed now.

  Warner nods.

  “How long have you known?” I don’t know how to stay calm about this.

  “My entire life.” Warner shrugs. “He’s always been around. I’ve known his face since I was a child; I used to see him around our house, sitting in on meetings for The Reestablishment, all organized by my father.”

  I’m so stunned I hardly know what to say. “But . . . you treat him like he’s . . .”

  “My lieutenant?” Warner stretches his neck. “Well, he is.”

  “But he’s your family—”

  “He was assigned to this sector by my father, and I had no reason to believe he was any different from the man who gave me half my DNA. He’s never gone to visit my mother. Never asks about her. Has never shown any interest in her. It’s taken Delalieu nineteen years to earn my trust, and I’ve only just allowed myself this weakness because I’ve been able to sense his sincerity with regular consistency throughout the years.” Warner pauses. “And even though we’ve reached some level of familiarity, he has never, and will never, acknowledge our shared biology.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because he is no more my grandfather than I am my father’s son.”

  I stare at Warner for a long time before I realize there’s no point in continuing this conversation. Because I think I understand. He and Delalieu have nothing more than an odd, formal sort of respect for each other. And just because you’re bound by blood does not make you a family.

  I would know.

  “So do you have to go now?” I whisper, sorry I even brought up the topic of Delalieu.

  “Not just yet.” He smiles. Touches my cheek.

  We’re both silent a moment.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask him.

  He leans in, kisses me so softly. Shakes his head.

  I touch the tip of my finger to his lips. “There are secrets in here,” I say. “I want them out.”

  He tries to bite my finger.

  I steal it back.

  “Why do you smell so good?” he asks, still smiling as he avoids my question. He leans in again, leaves light kisses along my jawline, under my chin. “It’s making me crazy.”

  “I’ve been stealing your soaps,” I tell him.

  He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Sorry.” I feel myself blush.

  “Don’t feel bad,” he says, serious so suddenly. “You can have anything of mine you want. You can have all of it.”

  I’m caught off guard, so touched by the sincerity in his voice. “Really?” I ask. “Because I do love that soap.”

  He grins at me then. His eyes are wicked.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. Breaks away. Slips out of bed.

  “Aaron—”

  “I’ll be right back,” he says.

  I watch him walk into the bathroom. I hear the sound of a faucet, the rush of water filling a tub.

  My heart starts racing.

  H
e walks back into the room and I’m clinging to the sheets, already protesting what I think he’s about to do.

  He tugs on the blanket. Tilts his head at me. “Let go, please.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “It’s okay, love.” His eyes are teasing me. “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “It’s too bright in here. Turn the lights off.”

  He laughs out loud. Yanks the covers off the bed.

  I bite back a scream. “Aaron—”

  “You are perfect,” he says. “Every inch of you. Perfect,” he says again. “Don’t hide from me.”

  “I take it back,” I say, panicked, clutching a pillow to my body. “I don’t want your soap—I take it back—”

  But then he plucks the pillow out of my arms, scoops me up, and carries me away.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  My suit is ready.

  Warner made sure Alia and Winston would have everything they needed in order to create it, and though I’d seen them tackling the project a little more every day, I never would’ve thought all those different materials could turn into this.

  It looks like snakeskin.

  The material is both black and gunmetal gray, but it looks almost gold in certain flashes of light. The pattern moves when I do, and it’s dizzying how the threads seem to converge and diverge, looking as though they swim together and come apart.

  It fits me in a way that’s both uncomfortable and reassuring; it’s skintight and a little stiff at first, but once I start moving my arms and legs I begin to understand just how much hidden flexibility it holds. It all seems strangely counterintuitive. This suit is even lighter than the one I had before—it hardly feels like I’m wearing anything at all—and yet it feels so much more durable, so much stronger. I feel like I could block a knife in this suit. Like I could be dragged across a mile of pavement in this suit.

  I also have new boots.

  They’re very similar to my old ones, but these cut off at my calf, not my ankle. They’re flat, springy, and soundless as I walk around in them.