Imagine Me (Shatter Me #6) - Tahereh Mafi Page 0,92
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.