Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

trunks 5 shades darker than his green, green eyes; the bright gold buttons are the perfect complement to his golden hair. He’s wearing a black tie. Black leather gloves. Shiny black boots.
    He looks immaculate.
    Flawless, especially as he stands here among the dirt and destruction, surrounded by the bleakest colors this landscape has to offer. He’s a vision of emerald and onyx, silhouetted in the sunlight in the most deceiving way. He could be glowing. That could be a halo around his head. This could be the world’s way of making an example out of irony. Because Warner is beautiful in ways even Adam isn’t.
    Because Warner is not human.
    Nothing about him is normal.
    He’s looking around, eyes squinting against the morning light, and the wind blows open his unbuttoned coat long enough for me to catch a glimpse of his arm underneath. Bandaged. Bound in a sling.
    So close.
    I was so close.
    The soldiers hovering around him are waiting for orders, waiting for something, and I can’t tear my eyes away. I can’t help but experience a strange thrill in being so close to him, and yet so far away. It feels almost like an advantage—being able to study him without his knowledge.
    He is a strange, strange, twisted boy.
    I don’t know if I can forget what he did to me. What he made me do. How I came so close to killing all over again. I will hate him forever for it even though I’m sure I’ll have to face him again.
    One day.
    I never thought I’d see Warner on the compounds. I had no idea he even visited the civilians—though, in truth, I never knew much about how he spent his days unless he spent them with me. I have no idea what he’s doing here.
    He finally says something to the soldiers and they nod, once, quickly. Then disappear.
    I pretend to be focused on something just to the right of him, careful to keep my head down and cocked slightly to the side so he can’t catch a glimpse of my face even if he does look in my direction. My left hand reaches up to tug my hat down over my ears, and my right hand pretends to sort trash, pretends to pick out pieces of scraps to salvage for the day.
    This is how some people make their living. Another miserable occupation.
    Warner runs his good hand over his face, covering his eyes for just a moment before his hand rests on his mouth, pressing against his lips as though he has something he can’t bear to say.
    His eyes look almost . . . worried. Though I’m sure I’m just reading him wrong.
    I watch him as he watches the people around him. I watch him closely enough to be able to notice that his gaze lingers on the small children, the way they run after each other with an innocence that says they have no idea what kind of world they’ve lost. This bleak, dark place is the only thing they’ve ever known.
    I try to read Warner’s expression as he studies them, but he’s careful to keep himself completely neutral. He doesn’t do more than blink as he stands perfectly still, a statue in the wind.
    A stray dog is heading straight toward him.
    I’m suddenly petrified. I’m worried for this scrappy creature, this weak, frozen little animal probably seeking out small bits of food, something to keep it from starving for the next few hours. My heart starts racing in my chest, the blood pumping too fast and too hard and I don’t know why I feel like something terrible is about to happen.
    The dog bolts right into the backs of Warner’s legs, as if it’s half blind and can’t see where it’s going. It’s panting hard, tongue lolling to the side like it doesn’t know how to get it back in. It whines and whimpers a little, slobbering all over Warner’s very exquisite pants and I’m holding my breath as the golden boy turns around. I half expect him to take out his gun and shoot the dog right in the head.
    I’ve already seen him do it to a human being.
    But Warner’s face breaks apart at the sight of the small dog, cracks forming in the perfect cast of his features, surprise lifting his eyebrows and widening his gaze for just a moment. Long enough for me to notice.
    He looks around, his eyes swift as they survey his surroundings before he scoops the animal into his arms and disappears around a low fence—one of the short, squat fences that are used to section off squares of land for each compound. I’m suddenly desperate to see what he’s going to do and I’m feeling anxious, so anxious, still unable to breathe.
    I’ve seen what Warner can do to a person.