Page 46 of Rebel
“I’m not pretending.”
“You are,” she says without missing a beat. “Tall, broody, built like a sin you can’t confess. What’s not to stare at?”
“You’re impossible.” I roll my eyes and French laughs.
“I’m right. You sound lighter, Vic. Like maybe you stopped punishing yourself for breathing.” Her line turns quiet like she said something she shouldn’t have.
I let the silence sit with me. “You always this sentimental?”
“Only when I smell love brewing. Tell Soldier Boy I said keep his boots off the couch.”
On another laugh, French hangs up, and I look at Carter. Sure enough, his boots are propped on the couch. I shake my head and set my phone on the table.
Allura calls later in the night, the kind of call that carries command even across bad reception. “Divine says you’re still breathing. Good. Keep it that way.”
“That your pep talk?” I ask.
“The only one you get. Look, I trust you. But grief has a way of making people stupid. Don’t let that happen.”
“It’s not grief,” I lie.
“Then be sure. If this thing with Bishop is real, it needs to make you smarter, not reckless. Bring me something I can use, Treasurer. And bring yourself home.”
“Always do.”
“Liar.”Click.
Sloane doesn’t call, she shows up. She makes an appearance at the back door of the safehouse two nights later, all no-nonsense and coiled danger, hair braidedtight, eyes that’d trained the sea to be obedient. Carter pretends to sleep on the couch and fails.
“He’s trouble,” she says after one look.
“So am I,” I shoot back.
“That’s what worries me. Two fires too close together don’t make warmth. They make ash.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask.
She studies the room, mugs, guns, the way the sheets are folded, because we’re halfway decent at pretending, and says, “Allura’s right to trust you. But if he crosses you, I won’t hesitate.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.
As she leaves, she whispers in Carter’s direction, “You hurt her, soldier, I’ll feed you to the sharks.”
Without opening his eyes, he answers, “Duly noted.”
Sloane smirks. “I hope that is.”
Night with Carter crystallizes into small, true things. He oils a gun in the low light while I pretend to read Divine’s decrypted files. He looks up and says the most disarming thing. “You. And him. How you look when you say his name.”
“Alex’s always in the room somewhere,” I say.
“I don’t want to erase him,” he replies. “Just… make sure you know you’re allowed to have something after.”
That is the kind of honesty that feels like currency. I cross the room and take the oil rag from his hand because touching is easier than answering. “I know. I’m not made of glass.”
“No. You’re made of iron and bad coffee.”
“Better than rust.” I laugh.
