Page 78 of Pulse Zero
A flash of blond hair in a crowd when I was watching him from afar. The echo of his sharp laugh. The memory of a snarky comment that should’ve annoyed me more than it ever did. The slow sweep of his tongue as he licked the mustard from his lip. The way he used to lean his head back against the wall when he was thinking of his next question. The exact shade of green in his eyes when he was pissed off. The stubborn tilt of his mouth when someone told him no.
I should have forgotten.
But the human brain is cruel like that. It clings to things it never got to finish.
Cason was right about one thing.
I was robbed.
Not just of my life before Bellrose. Not just of the years Malcolm stole when he turned me into his weapon. I was robbed of whatever the hell was starting to grow between us before everything went to shit. I didn’t get to know if it could be more than Stockholm syndrome. I didn’t get the chance to figure out what it really was.
Because Malcolm took that too.
In my mind,hewas the one to kidnap Cason. Turned him into bait, used him to fake my death, then stole him away. Stolethe only person in my life who had started to matter in a way that wasn’t tactical or convenient or…could have been more than temporary.
And the worst part?
I don’t think Cason ever knew that I was starting to feel things too.
For four years, I tried to forget him because I was a dead man, owned by the Institute, and I couldn’t have him. Because I had to protect him.
Then for three years, I hated him.
Turns out hating him was easier than trying to forget him. It was easier to believe he had betrayed us. Betrayedme. That he’d knowingly burned through everything we built. That he’d been the architect of the disaster that killed Ash and left the rest of us scattered and hunted until we were nearly extinct.
Anger is useful in war. It keeps you sharp and focused. It gives the pain somewhere to go.
But now he’s here, locked in the basement, and the anger feels…misplaced.
Hurting him didn’t help like it was supposed to, like I thought it would. If anything, it made the hollow place in my chest feel like an even deeper chasm.
The truth is, Cason isn’t really the one I want to hurt. That honor belongs to the person who took him away from me in the first place.
I lean against the counter in the safehouse kitchen, staring down into the mug of coffee in my hand that’s gone cold, the dark liquid swirling like my shadows around my feet. Sebastian sits across from me with his tablet, scrolling through surveillance feeds.
After the silence has gone on for a long time, he glances up like he’s making sure I’m still here.
“You look like you’re plotting murder.”
I huff out a quiet breath. “Isn’t that what I’m usually doing?”
“Sure,” he says with a shrug. “But you also usually look more enthusiastic about it.” He peers back down at his tablet and taps something on the screen. “Rough time down there?”
My shadows stir a little more restless, and I force them to settle.
“It went peachy.”
“That’s a non-answer.”
“Congratulations. You’ve identified sarcasm.”
He leans back, his eyes on me again as he studies me for a second longer. “Why are you being sarcastic? Is there anything I can help with? If you want someone else to handle the Bellrose kid—”
“No.”
The word comes out sharper than I intend. Sebastian doesn’t flinch, just narrows his eyes.
“There’s something you’re not telling me about him.”
