Ignite Me (29 page)

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.

He 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.

I didn’t ask for any gloves.

I’m flexing my bare hands, walking the length of the room and back, bending my knees and familiarizing myself with the sensation of wearing a new kind of outfit. It serves a different purpose. I’m not trying to hide my skin from the world anymore. I’m only trying to enhance the power I already have.

It feels so good.

“These are for you, too,” Alia says, beaming as she blushes. “I thought you might like a new set.” She holds out exact replicas of the knuckle braces she made for me once before.

The ones I lost. In a battle we lost.

These, more than anything else, represent so much to me. It’s a second chance. An opportunity to do things right. “Thank you,” I tell her, hoping she knows how much I mean it.

I fit the braces over my bare knuckles, flexing my fingers as I do.

I look up. Look around.

Everyone is staring at me. “What do you think?” I ask.

“Your suit looks just like mine.” Kenji frowns. “I’m supposed to be the one with the black suit. Why can’t you have a pink suit? Or a yellow suit—”

“Because we’re not the freaking Power Rangers,”
Winston says, rolling his eyes.

“What the hell is a Power Ranger?” Kenji shoots back.

“I think it looks awesome,” James says, grinning big. “You look way cooler than you did before.”

“Yeah, that is seriously badass,” Lily says. “I love it.”

“It’s your best work, mates,” Brendan says to both Winston and Alia. “Really. And the knuckle—things . . . ,” he says, gesturing to my hands. “Those are just . . . they bring the whole thing together, I think. It’s brilliant.”

“You look very sharp, Ms. Ferrars,” Castle says to me. “I think it quite suits you,” he says, “if you’ll forgive the pun.”

I grin.

Warner’s hand is on my back. He leans in, whispers, “How easy is it to take this thing off?” and I force myself not to look at him and the smile he’s surely enjoying at my expense. I hate that he can still make me blush.

My eyes try to find a new focus around the room.

Adam
.

He’s staring at me, his features unexpectedly relaxed. Calm. And for one moment, one very brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the boy I once knew. The one I first fell for.

He turns away.

I can’t stop hoping he’ll be okay; he only has twelve hours to pull himself together. Because tonight, we go over the plan, one last time.

And tomorrow, it all begins.

FIFTY-EIGHT

“Aaron?” I whisper.

The lights are out. We’re lying in bed. I’m stretched out across his body, my head pillowed on his chest. My eyes are on the ceiling.

He’s running his hand over my hair, his fingers occasionally combing through the strands. “Your hair is like water,” he whispers. “It’s so fluid. Like silk.”

“Aaron.”

He leaves a light kiss on top of my head. Rubs his hands down my arms. “Are you cold?” he asks.

“You can’t avoid this forever.”

“We don’t have to avoid it at all,” he says. “There’s nothing to avoid.”

“I just want to know you’re okay,” I say. “I’m worried about you.” He still hasn’t said a single thing to me about his mother. He never said a word the entire time we were in her room, and he hasn’t spoken about it since. Hasn’t even alluded to it. Not once.

Even now, he says nothing.

“Aaron?”

“Yes, love.”

“You’re not going to talk about it?”

He’s silent again for so long I’m about to turn around to face him. But then.

“She’s no longer in pain,” he says softly. “This is a great consolation to me.”

I don’t push him to speak after that.

“Juliette,” he says.

“Yes?”

I can hear him breathing.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “For being my friend.”

I turn around then. Press close to him, my nose grazing his neck. “I will always be here if you need me,” I say, the darkness catching and hushing my voice. “Please remember that. Always remember that.”

More seconds drown in the darkness. I feel myself drifting off to sleep.

“Is this really happening?” I hear him whisper.

“What?” I blink, try to stay awake.

“You feel so real,” he says. “You sound so real. I want so badly for this to be real.”

“This is real,” I say. “And things are going to get better. Things are going to get so much better. I promise.”

He takes a tight breath. “The scariest part,” he says, so quietly, “is that for the first time in my life, I actually believe that.”

“Good,” I say softly, turning my face into his chest. I close my eyes.

Warner’s arms slip around me, pulling me closer. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” he whispers.

“Mmm?”

“I don’t like these,” he says. He tugs on my pants.

I touch my lips to his neck, just barely. It’s a feather of a kiss. “Then take them off.”

He pulls back the covers.

I only have a second to bite back a shiver before he’s kneeling between my legs. He finds the waistband of my pants and tugs, pulling them off, over my hips, down my thighs. So slowly.

My heart is asking me all kinds of questions.

He bunches my pants in one fist and throws them across the room.

And then his arms slip behind my back, pulling me up and against his chest. His hands move under my shirt, up my spine.

Soon my shirt is gone.

Tossed in the same direction as my pants.

I shiver, just a little, and he eases me back onto the pillows, careful not to crush me under his weight. His body heat is so welcome, so warm. My head tilts backward. My eyes are still closed.

My lips part for no reason at all.

“I want to be able to feel you,” he whispers, his words at my ear. “I want your skin against mine.” His gentle hands move down my body. “God, you’re so soft,” he says, his voice husky with emotion.

He’s kissing my neck.