Imagine Me (Shatter Me Book 6)

Ella

Juliette

Run, Juliette

run

faster, run until your bones break and your shins split and your muscles atrophy

Run run run

until you can’t hear their feet behind you

Run until you drop dead.

Make sure your heart stops before they ever reach you. Before they ever touch you.

Run, I said.

The words appear, unbidden, in my mind. I don’t know where they come from and I don’t know why I know them, but I say them to myself as I go, my boots pounding the ground, my head a strangled mess of chaos. I don’t understand what just happened. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t understand anything anymore.

The boy is close.

He moves more swiftly than I anticipated, and I’m surprised. I didn’t expect him to be able to meet my blows. I didn’t expect him to face me so easily. Mostly, I’m stunned he’s somehow immune to my power. I didn’t even know that was possible.

I don’t understand.

I’m racking my brain, trying desperately to comprehend how such a thing might’ve happened—and whether I might’ve been responsible for the anomaly—but nothing makes sense. Not his presence. Not his attitude. Not even the way he fights.

Which is to say: he doesn’t.

He doesn’t even want to fight. He seems to have no interest in beating me, despite the ample evidence that we are well matched. He only fends me off, making only the most basic effort to protect himself, and still I haven’t killed him.

There’s something strange about him. Something about him that’s getting under my skin. Unsettling me.

But he dashed out of sight when I threw another table at him, and he’s been running ever since.

It feels like a trap.

I know it, and yet, I feel compelled to find him. Face him. Destroy him.

I spot him, suddenly, at the far end of the laboratory, and he meets my eyes with an insouciance that enrages me. I charge forward but he moves swiftly, disappearing through an adjoining door.

This is a trap, I remind myself.

Then again, I’m not sure it matters whether this is a trap. I am under orders to find him. Kill him. I just have to be better. Smarter.

So I follow.

From the time I met this boy—from the first moment we began exchanging blows—I’ve ignored the dizzying sensations coursing through my body. I’ve tried to deny my sudden, feverish skin, my trembling hands. But when a fresh wave of nausea nearly sends me reeling, I can no longer deny my fear:

There’s something wrong with me.

I catch another glimpse of his golden hair and my vision blurs, clears, my heart slows. For a moment, my muscles seem to spasm. There is a creeping, tremulous terror clenching its fist around my lungs and I don’t understand it. I keep hoping the feeling will change. Clear. Disappear. But as the minutes pass and the symptoms show no signs of abating, I begin to panic.

I’m not tired, no. My body is too strong. I can feel it—can feel my muscles, their strength, their steadiness—and I can tell that I could keep fighting like this for hours. Days. I’m not worried about giving up, I’m not worried about breaking down.

I’m worried about my head. My confusion. The uncertainty seeping through me, spreading like a poison.

Ibrahim is dead.

Anderson, nearly so.

Will he recover? Will he die? Who would I be without him? What was it Ibrahim wanted to do to me? From what was Anderson trying to protect me? Who are these children I’m meant to kill? Why did Ibrahim call them my friends?

My questions are endless.

I kill them.

I shove aside a series of steel desks and catch a glimpse of the boy before he darts around a corner. Anger punches through me, shooting a jolt of adrenaline to my brain, and I start running again, renewed determination focusing my mind. I charge through the dimly lit room, shoving my way through an endless sea of medical paraphernalia. When I stop moving, silence descends.

Silence so pure it’s deafening.

I spin around, searching. The boy is gone. I blink, confused, scanning the room as my pulse races with renewed fear. Seconds pass, gather into moments that feel like minutes, hours.

This is a trap.

The laboratory is perfectly still—the lights so perfectly dim—that as the silence drags on I begin to wonder if I’m caught in a dream. I feel suddenly paranoid, uncertain. Like maybe that boy was a figment of my imagination. Like maybe all of this is some strange nightmare, and maybe I’ll wake up soon and Anderson will be back in his office, and Ibrahim will be a man I’ve never met, and tomorrow I’ll wake up in my pod by the water.

Maybe, I think, this is all just another test.

A simulation.

Maybe Anderson is challenging my loyalty one last time. Maybe it’s my job to stay put, to keep myself safe like he asked me to, and to destroy anyone who tries to stand in my way. Or maybe—

Stop.

I sense movement.

Movement so fine it’s nearly imperceptible. Movement so gentle it could’ve been a breeze, except for one thing:

I hear a heart beating.

Someone is here, someone motionless, someone sly. I straighten, my senses heightened, my heart racing in my chest.

Someone is here someone is here someone is here—

Where?

There.

He appears, as if out of a dream, standing before me like a statue, still as cooling steel. He stares at me, green eyes the color of sea glass, the color of celadon.

I never really had a chance to see his face.

Not like this.

My heart races as I assess him, his white shirt, green jacket, gold hair. Skin like porcelain. He does not slouch or fidget and, for a moment, I’m certain I was right, that perhaps he’s nothing more than a mirage. A program.

Another hologram.

I reach out, uncertain, the tips of my fingers grazing the exposed skin at his throat and he takes a sharp, shaky breath.

Real, then.

I flatten my hand against his chest, just to be sure, and I feel his heart racing under my palm. Fast, lightning fast.

I glance up, surprised.

He’s nervous.

Another unsteady breath escapes him and this time, takes with it a measure of control. He steps back, shakes his head, stares up at the ceiling.

Not nervous.

He is distraught.

I should kill him now, I think. Kill him now.

A wave of nausea hits me so hard it nearly knocks me off my feet. I take a few unsteady steps backward, catching myself against a steel table. My fingers grip the cold metal edge and I hang on, teeth clenched, willing my mind to clear.

Heat floods my body.

Heat, torturous heat, presses against my lungs, fills my blood. My lips part. I feel parched. I look up and he’s right in front of me and I do nothing. I do nothing as I watch his throat move.

I do nothing as my eyes devour him.

I feel faint.

I study the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle slope where his neck meets shoulder. His lips look soft. His cheekbones high, his nose sharp, his brows heavy, gold. He is finely made. Beautiful, strong hands. Short, clean nails. I notice he wears a jade ring on his left pinkie finger.

He sighs.

He shakes off his jacket, carefully folding it over the back of a nearby chair. Underneath he wears only a simple white T-shirt, the sculpted contours of his bare arms catching the attention of the dim lights. He moves slowly, his motions unhurried. When he begins to pace I watch him, study the shape of him. I am not surprised to discover that he moves beautifully. I am fascinated by him, by his form, his measured strides, the muscles honed under skin. He seems like he might be my age, maybe a little older, but there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes him seem older than our years combined.

Whatever it is, I like it.

I wonder what I’m supposed to do with this, all of this. Is it truly a test? If so, why send someone like him? Why a face so refined? Why a body so perfectly honed?

Was I meant to enjoy this?

A strange, delirious feeling stirs inside of me at the thought. Something ancient. Something wonderful. It is almost too bad, I think, that I will have to kill him. And it is the heat, the dullness, the inexplicable numbness in my mind that compels me to say—

“Where did they make you?”

He startles. I didn’t think he would startle. But when he turns to look at me, he seems confused.

I explain: “You are unusually beautiful.”

His eyes widen.

His lips part, press together, tremble into a curve that surprises me. Surprises him.

He smiles.

He smiles and I stare—two dimples, straight teeth, shining eyes. A sudden, incomprehensible heat rushes across my skin, sets me aflame. I feel violently hot. Sick with fever.

Finally, he says: “So you are in there.”

“Who?”

“Ella,” he says, but he’s speaking softly now. “Juliette. They said you’d be gone.”

“I’m not gone,” I say, my hands shaking as I pull myself together. “I am Juliette Ferrars, supreme soldier to our North American commander. Who are you?”

He moves closer. His eyes darken as he stares at me, but there’s no true darkness there. I try to stand taller, straighter. I remind myself that I have a task, that this is my moment to attack, to fulfill my orders. Perhaps I sh—

“Love,” he whispers.

Heat flashes across my skin. Pain presses against my mind, a vague realization that I’ve left something overlooked. Dusty emotion trembles inside of me, and I kill it.

He steps forward, takes my face in his hands. I think about breaking his fingers. Snapping his wrists. My heart is racing.

I cannot move.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” I say, gasping the words.

“Why not?”

“Because I will kill you.”

Gently, he tilts my head back, his hands possessive, persuasive. An ache seizes my muscles, holds me in place. My eyes close reflexively. I breathe him in and my mouth fills with flavor—fresh air, fragrant flowers, heat, happiness—and I’m struck by the strangest idea that we’ve been here before, that I’ve lived this before, that I’ve known him before and then I feel, I feel his breath on my skin and the sensation, the sensation is—

heady,

disorienting.

I’m losing track of my mind, trying desperately to locate my purpose, to focus my thoughts, when

he moves

the earth tilts, his lips graze my jaw and I make a sound, a desperate, unconscious sound that stuns me. My skin is frenzied, burning. That familiar warmth contaminates my blood, my temperature spiking, my face flushing.

“Do I—”

I try to speak but he kisses my neck and I gasp, his hands still caught around my face. I’m breathless, heart pounding, pulse pounding, head pounding. He touches me like he knows me, knows what I want, knows what I need. I feel insane. I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice when I finally manage to say,

“Do I know you?”

“Yes.”

My heart leaps. The simplicity of his answer strangles my mind, digs for truth. It feels true. Feels true that I’ve known these hands, this mouth, those eyes.

Feels real.

“Yes,” he says again, his own voice rough with feeling. His hands leave my face and I’m lost in the loss, searching for warmth. I press closer to him without even meaning to, asking him for something I don’t understand. But then his hands slide under my shirt, his palms pressing against my back, and the magnitude of the sudden, skin-to-skin contact sets my body on fire.

I feel explosive.

I feel dangerously close to something that might kill me, and still I lean into him, blinded by instinct, deaf to everything but the ferocious beat of my own heart.

He pulls back, just an inch.

His hands are still caught under my shirt, his bare arms wrapped around my bare skin and his mouth lingers above mine, the heat between us threatening to ignite. He pulls me closer and I bite back a moan, losing my head as the hard lines of his body sink into me. He is everywhere, his scent, his skin, his breath. I see nothing but him, sense nothing but him, his hands spreading across my torso, my lungs compressing under his careful, searing exploration. I lean into the sensations, his fingers grazing my stomach, the small of my back. He touches his forehead to mine and I press up, onto my toes, asking for something, begging for something—

“What,” I gasp, “what is happening—”

He kisses me.

Soft lips, waves of sensation. Feeling overflows the vacancies in my mind. My hands begin to shake. My heart beats so hard I can hardly keep still when he nudges my mouth open, takes me in. He tastes like heat and peppermint, like summer, like the sun.

I want more.

I take his face in my hands and pull him closer and he makes a soft, desperate sound in the back of his throat that sends a spike of pleasure directly to my brain. Pure, electric heat lifts me up, outside of myself. I seem to be floating here, surrendered to this strange moment, held in place by an ancient mold that fits my body perfectly. I feel frantic, seized by a need to know more, a need I don’t even understand.

When we break apart his chest his heaving and his face is flushed and he says—

“Come back to me, love. Come back.”

I’m still struggling to breathe, desperately searching his eyes for answers. Explanations. “Where?”

“Here,” he whispers, pressing my hands to his heart. “Home.”

“But I don’t—”

Flashes of light streak across my vision. I stumble backward, half-blind, like I’m dreaming, reliving the caress of a forgotten memory, and it’s like an ache looking to be soothed, it’s a steaming pan thrown in ice water, it’s a flushed cheek pressed to a cool pillow on a hot hot night and heat gathers, collects behind my eyes, distorting sights, dimming sounds.

Here.

This.

My bones against his bones. This is my home.

I return to my skin with a sudden, violent shudder and feel wild, unstable. I stare at him, my heart seizing, my lungs fighting for air. He stares back, his eyes such a pale green in the light that, for a moment, he doesn’t even seem human.

Something is happening to my head.

Pain is collecting in my blood, calcifying around my heart. I feel at war with myself, lost and wounded, my mind spinning with uncertainty. “What is your name?” I ask.

He steps forward, so close our lips touch. Part. His breath whispers across my skin and my nerves hum, spark.

“You know my name,” he says quietly.

I try to shake my head. He catches my chin.

This time, he’s not careful.

This time, he’s desperate. This time, when he kisses me he breaks me open, heat coming off him in waves. He tastes like springwater and something sweet, something searing.

I feel dazed. Delirious.

When he breaks away I’m shaking, my lungs shaking, my breaths shaking, my heart shaking. I watch, as if in a dream, as he pulls off his shirt, tosses it to the ground. And then he’s here again, he’s back again, he’s caught me in his arms and he’s kissing me so deeply my knees give out.

He picks me up, bracing my body as he sets me down on the long, steel table. The cool metal seeps through the fabric of my pants, sending goose bumps along my heated skin and I gasp, my eyes closing as he straddles my legs, claims my mouth. He presses my hands to his chest, drags my fingers down his naked torso and I make a desperate, broken sound, pleasure and pain stunning me, paralyzing me.

He unbuttons my shirt, his deft hands moving quickly even as he kisses my neck, my cheeks, my mouth, my throat. I cry out when he moves, his kisses shifting down my body, searching, exploring. He pushes aside the two halves of my shirt, his mouth still hot against my skin, and then he closes the gap between us, pressing his bare chest to mine, and my heart explodes.

Something snaps inside of me.

Severs.

A sudden, fractured sob escapes my throat. Unbidden tears sting my eyes, startling me as they fall down my face. Unknown emotion soars through me, expanding my heart, confusing my head. He pulls me impossibly closer, our bodies soldered together. And then he presses his forehead to my collarbone, his body trembling with emotion when he says—

“Come back.”

My head is full of sand, sound, sensations spinning in my mind. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, I don’t understand this pain, this unbelievable pleasure. I’m staining his skin with my tears and he only pulls me tighter, pressing our hearts together until the feeling sinks its teeth into my bones, splits open my lungs. I want to bury myself in this moment, I want to pull him into me, I want to drag myself out of myself but there’s something wrong, something blocked, something stopped—

Something broken.

Realization arrives in gentle waves, theories lapping and overlapping at the shores of my consciousness until I’m drenched in confusion. Awareness.

Terror.

“You know my name,” he says softly. “You’ve always known me, love. I’ve always known you. And I’m so—I’m so desperately in love with you—”

The pain begins in my ears.

It collects, expanding, pressure building to a peak so acute it transforms, sharpening into a torture that stops my heart.

First I go deaf, stiff. Second I go blind, slack.

Third, my heart restarts.

I come back to life with a sudden, terrifying inhalation that nearly chokes me, blood rushing to my ears, my eyes, leaking from my nose. I taste it, taste my own blood in my mouth as I begin to understand: there is something inside of me. A poison. A violence. Something wrong something wrong something wrong

And then, as if from miles away, I hear myself scream.

There’s cold tile under my knees, rough grout pressing into my knuckles. I scream into the silence, power building power, electricity charging my blood. My mind is separating from itself, trying to identify the poison, this parasite residing inside of me.

I have to kill it.

I scream, forcing my own energy inward, screaming until the explosive energy building inside of me ruptures my eardrums. I scream until I feel the blood drip from my ears and down my neck, I scream until the lights in the laboratory begin to pop and break. I scream until my teeth bleed, until the floor fissures beneath my feet, until the skin at my knees begins to crack. I scream until the monster inside of me begins to die.

And only then—

Only when I’m certain I’ve killed some small part of my own self do I finally collapse.

I’m choking, coughing up blood, my chest heaving from the effort expended. The room swims. Swings around.

I press my forehead to the cold floor and fight back a wave of nausea. And then I feel a familiar, heavy hand against my back. With excruciating slowness, I manage to lift my head.

A blur of gold appears, disappears before me.

I blink once, twice, and try to push up with my arms but a sharp, searing pain in my wrist nearly blinds me. I look down, examining the strange, hazy sight. I blink again. Ten times more.

Finally, my eyes focus.

The skin inside my right arm has split open. Blood is smeared across my skin, dripping on the floor. From within the fresh wound, a single blue light pulses from a steel, circular body, the edges of which push up against my torn flesh.

With one final effort, I rip the flashing mechanism from my arm, the last vestige of this monster. It drops from my shaking fingers, clatters to the floor.

And this time, when I look up, I see his face.

“Aaron,” I gasp.

He drops to his knees.

He pulls my bleeding body into his arms and I break, I break apart, sobs cracking open my chest. I cry until the pain spirals and peaks, I cry until my head throbs and my eyes swell. I cry, pressing my face against his neck, my fingers digging into his back, desperate for purchase. Proof.

He holds me, silent and steady, gathering my blood and bones against his body even as the tears recede, even when I begin to tremble. He holds me tight as my body shakes, holds me close when the tears start anew, holds me in his arms and strokes my hair and tells me that everything, everything is going to be okay.