Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

into my seat with a distracted nod and eyes that refuse to focus in front of me.
    “He’s not here,” Kenji says, shoving a spoonful of breakfast into his mouth.
    “What?” Oh how fascinating look at this fork and this spoon and this table. “What do y—”
    “Not here,” he says, his mouth still half full of food.
    Winston clears his throat, scratches the back of his head. Brendan shifts in his seat beside me.
    “Oh. I—I, um—” Heat flushes up my neck as I look around at the 3 guys sitting at this table. I want to ask Kenji where Adam is, why he isn’t here, how he’s doing, if he’s okay, if he’s been eating regularly. I want to ask a million questions I shouldn’t be asking but it’s blatantly clear that none of them want to talk about the awkward details of my personal life. And I don’t want to be that sad, pathetic girl. I don’t want pity. I don’t want to see the uncomfortable sympathy in their eyes.
    So I sit up. Clear my throat.
    “What’s going on with the patrols?” I ask Winston. “Is it getting any worse?”
    Winston looks up midchew, surprised. He swallows down the food too quickly and coughs once, twice. Takes a sip of his coffee—tar black—and leans forward, looking eager. “It’s getting weirder,” he says.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, so, remember how I told you guys that Warner was showing up every night?”
    Warner. I can’t get the image of his smiling, laughing face out of my head.
    We nod.
    “Well.” He leans back in his chair. Holds up his hands. “Last night? Nothing.”
    “Nothing?” Brendan’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “What do you mean, nothing?”
    “I mean no one was there.” He shrugs. Picks up his fork. Stabs at a piece of food. “Not Warner, not a single soldier. Night before last?” He looks around at us. “Fifty, maybe seventy-five soldiers. Last night, zero.”
    “Did you tell Castle about this?” Kenji isn’t eating anymore. He’s staring at Winston with a focused, too-serious look on his face. It’s worrying me.
    “Yeah.” Winston nods as he takes another sip of his coffee. “I turned in my report about an hour ago.”
    “You mean you haven’t gone to sleep yet?” I ask, eyes wide.
    “I slept yesterday,” he says, waving a haphazard hand at me. “Or the day before yesterday. I can’t remember. God, this coffee is disgusting,” he says, gulping it down.
    “Right. Maybe you should lay off the coffee, yeah?” Brendan tries to grab Winston’s cup.
    Winston slaps at his hand, shoots him a dark look. “Not all of us have electricity running through our veins,” he says. “I’m not a freaking powerhouse of energy like you are.”
    “I only did that once—”
    “Twice!”
    “—and it was an emergency,” he says, looking a little sheepish.
    “What are you guys talking about?” I ask.
    “This guy”—Kenji jerks a thumb at Brendan—“can, like, literally recharge his own body. He doesn’t need to sleep. It’s insane.”
    “It’s not fair,” Winston mutters, ripping a piece of bread in half.
    I turn to Brendan, jaw unhinged. “No way.”
    He nods. Shrugs. “I’ve only done it once.”
    “Twice!” Winston says again. “And he’s a freaking fetus,” he says to me. “He’s already got way too much energy as it is—shit, all of you kids do—and yet he’s the one who comes with a rechargeable battery life.”
    “I am not a fetus ,” Brendan says, spluttering, glancing at me as heat colors his cheeks. “He’s—that’s not—you’re mad, ” he says, glaring at Winston.
    “Yeah,” Winston says, nodding, his mouth full of food again. “I am mad. I’m pissed off.” He swallows. “And I’m cranky as hell because I’m tired. And I’m hungry. And I need more coffee.” He shoves away from the table. Stands up. “I’m going to go get more coffee.”
    “I thought you said it was disgusting.”
    He levels a look at me. “Yes, but I am a sad, sad man with very low standards.”
    “It’s true,” Brendan says.
    “Shut up, fetus.”
    “You’re only allowed one cup,” Kenji points out, looking up to meet Winston’s eyes.
    “Don’t worry, I always tell them I’m taking yours,” he says, and stalks off.
    Kenji is laughing, shoulders shaking.
    Brendan is mumbling “I am not a fetus ” under his breath, stabbing at his food with renewed vigor.
    “How old are you?” I ask, curious. He’s so white-blond and pale-blue-eyed that he doesn’t seem real. He looks like the kind