Oath Bound (Unbound) - By Rachel Vincent Page 0,83
one more time, I’m going to have you declared legally brain dead.”
“I’m brain dead?” I set my mug down and scowled at her, and she nodded, chuckling now.
“Though that appears to be a selective defect. I haven’t seen you forget a single meal, yet you can’t seem to remember where you sleep at night.”
“This, coming from the woman who tried to give a gun to Ned-the-guard, so he could relieve us of the burden of drawing regular breaths in a body free from extraneous holes.”
“That’s not what I...” She frowned and abandoned the rest of her sentence. “Let me see this poetry.” Sera reached for the notebook, but I pulled it out of her grasp.
“It’s not poetry,” I admitted reluctantly. I didn’t want her to be right about the brain-dead badass thing. “I’m not sure I’d even recognize poetry if I saw it, outside of Dr. Seuss.”
She was still smiling, and I considered that a bit of a victory. “So, what is it? A journal?”
“Kind of.”
“You’re not writing in it.” She made a show of studying the tabletop. “I don’t see a pen. So you were just sitting here reading your own journal?” When I didn’t answer immediately, her brows furrowed. “That’s not yours, is it? You’re reading someone else’s journal. Is it Kori’s? What are you, nine?” She reached for the notebook and I tried to pull it away again, but that time I was too slow. Or maybe I didn’t believe she’d really take it.
I was wrong, and she was fast.
“Wait, Sera...” I held one hand out to her, then realized I had no idea what to do with it. “I feel like we’ve made serious strides in the you-not-wanting-to-castrate-me-with-a-kitchen-knife department, and I’d hate to ruin all that by having to actually take that away from you. But I will if I have to. It’s not Kori’s journal. It’s mine. It’s just...not about me.”
“Why would you keep a journal about someone else? Are you some kind of creepy stalker?” she said, and I wasn’t sure whether or not that was a joke. She didn’t seem very sure, either. “Is that about the last woman you kidnapped and locked up?”
“Give it back. Please.”
When I didn’t smile and showed no sign of relenting, she hesitated for one more second, studying my eyes, probably for some hint of violent tendencies. Other than the ones she’d already seen from me. Then she set the notebook on the table and slid it toward me.
But things were different now. Half an hour earlier, she’d trusted me enough to tell me that she’d seen her family murdered, and now that trust was gone. Suspicion swam in her eyes like tears that would never fall. Distrust was obvious in the straight line her lips had been pressed into and in the firm set of her jaw.
I could tell her the truth, or I could lose her confidence. Which might mean losing her as a Jammer. But as reluctant as I was to admit it, the possibility of losing her Skill wasn’t what bothered me.
What bothered me was the thought of losing her trust. Of never again seeing her laugh with me, because she couldn’t lower her guard long enough to see the humor in what I’d meant to say, when it came out all wrong. I wanted to see her smile again. I wanted to make her smile, and as soon as I’d had that thought, I had to shut it down, because somehow I’d slipped right back into the delusion that she might become interested in more than just my trigger finger.
But she wouldn’t. Even if she thought she could, she was wrong. I knew that because I’d been in her position, unable to truly move forward with life—or give any new relationship a chance—while I was still mourning Noelle.
Sera wasn’t here because she was beautiful, or smart, or brave. She wasn’t here because I wanted her here. Or because I wanted to help her. Or because seeing her in the morning made me smile, in spite of the fear and anger practically stagnating in our locked-tight house. Sera was with us because she could somehow help us—because Noelle had known that—and that was all.
The sooner I got that through my baddass-next-door brain, the better off we’d both be.
But I still couldn’t stand the thought of her hating me.
“Okay. Sera, wait,” I said, and she sat again, reluctantly, and sipped from her mug. “I’ll tell you about the journal. But you’re gonna think I’m crazy.”