Unravel Me: The Juliette Chronicles Book 2

self-possessed, unencumbered by the needs and wants that break most other men. So to hear these disgraceful, pleading words come out of his mouth?” He shakes his head. “Well. Naturally, I was intrigued. I had to see you for myself. I needed to understand what he’d seen, what was so special about you that it could’ve caused such a colossal lapse in judgment. Though, to be perfectly honest,” he says, “I really didn’t think you’d show up.” He takes one hand out of his pocket, gestures with it as he speaks. “I mean I certainly hoped you would. But I thought if you did, you’d at least come with support—some form of backup. But here you are, wearing this spandex monstrosity”—he laughs out loud—“and you’re all alone.” He studies me. “Very stupid,” he says. “But brave. I like that. I can admire bravery.
    “Anyhow, I brought you here to teach my son a lesson. I had every intention of killing you,” he says, assuming a slow, steady walk around the room. “And I preferred to do it where he would be sure to see it. War is messy,” he adds, waving his hand. “It’s easy to lose track of who’s been killed and how they died and who killed whom, et cetera, et cetera. I wanted this particular death to be as clean and simple as the message it would convey. It’s not good for him to form these kinds of attachments, after all. It’s my duty as his father to put an end to that kind of nonsense.”
    I feel sick, so sick, so tremendously sick to my stomach. This man is far worse than I ever could have imagined.
    My voice is one hard breath, one loud whisper when I speak. “So why don’t you just kill me?”
    He hesitates. Says, “I don’t know. I had no idea you were going to be quite so lovely. I’m afraid my son never mentioned how beautiful you are. And it’s always so difficult to kill a beautiful thing,” he sighs. “Besides, you surprised me. You arrived on time. Alone. You were actually willing to sacrifice yourself to save the worthless creatures stupid enough to get themselves caught.”
    He takes a sharp breath. “Maybe we could keep you. If you don’t prove useful, you might prove entertaining, at the very least.” He tilts his head, thoughtful. “Though if we did keep you, I suppose you’d have to come back to the capital with me, because I can’t trust my son to do anything right anymore. I’ve given him far too many chances.”
    “Thanks for the offer,” I tell him. “But I’d really rather jump off a cliff.”
    His laughter is like a hundred little bells, happy and wholesome and contagious. “Oh my.” He smiles, bright and warm and devastatingly sincere. He shakes his head. Calls over his shoulder toward what looks like it might be another room—maybe the kitchen, I can’t be sure—and says, “Son, would you come in here, please?”
    And all I can think is that sometimes you’re dying, sometimes you’re about to explode, sometimes you’re 6 feet under and you’re searching for a window when someone pours lighter fluid in your hair and lights a match on your face.
    I feel my bones ignite.
    Warner is here.

THIRTY-FIVE
    He appears in a doorway directly across from where I’m now standing and he looks exactly as I remember him. Golden hair and perfect skin and eyes too bright for their faded shade of emerald. His is an exquisitely handsome face, one I now realize he’s inherited from his father. It’s the kind of face no one believes in anymore; lines and angles and easy symmetry that’s almost offensive in its perfection. No one should ever want a face like that. It’s a face destined for trouble, for danger, for an outlet to overcompensate for the excess it stole from an unsuspecting innocent.
    It’s overdone.
    It’s too much.
    It frightens me.
    Black and green and gold seem to be his colors. His pitch-black suit is tailored to his frame, lean but muscular, offset by the crisp white of his shirt underneath and complemented by the simple black tie knotted at his throat. He stands straight, tall, unflinching. To anyone else he would look imposing, even with his right arm still in a sling. He’s the kind of boy who was only ever taught to be a man, who was told to erase the concept of childhood from his life’s expectations. His lips do not dare to smile, his forehead does not crease in distress. He has been taught to disguise his emotions, to hide his thoughts from the world and to trust no one and nothing. To take what he wants by