Page 22 of Tracking Snow

I'm not⁠—

She’s so close I can see the slight catch of her breath. My eyes drop to her mouth without my permission. Every muscle I have pulls toward her like a hook has me on a line and is slowly reeling me in, and I am—for the first time in longer than I can remember—genuinely losing the argument with myself. Not the others. Just me.

My hands flex. I move closer.

No. The warning growl comes from Seven. I almost grunt from the impact.

His command hits hard and visceral with foreboding control, reverberating through my bones.

I take a step back.

Disappointment flickers over Snow's features before it’s replaced by her impish smile again.

"So fancy meeting you out here, fellow vigilante," she says as if nothing had been about to happen. As if I weren’t about to cross every line I held. As if I hadn't been about to kiss a human.

"What?"

"I mean, we are both out here stalking the night, saving those who need protection from the big bad HAM assholes."

I shake my head. "Not what I’m doing."

"No?" She arches a brow with that saucy little smirk, like she knows me better than I know myself.

She doesn’t.

So why do I feel she’s about to reveal an eighth part of myself?

"No," I say firmly. "Whatever you think you know about me, you don’t." Then the rest of us catch up to what she said. "Is that really what you are doing? Playing hero on purpose?"

Not that I hadn’t thought about her showing up, pretending like she’s some superhero. But our thoughts had circled around...other aspects of her.

Though I saw it for myself, I struggle to wrap my mind around the idea she is volunteering for late nights on the shady streets.

"Come on, you don’t have to pretend with me. What’s your trauma?" She folds her hands behind her back and leans in conspiratorially. "Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine."

I snort. "Not likely."

She snaps her fingers. "Aha! You do have trauma. I mean, everyone does, but you can admit it, and you know what it is. The dudes I know don’t typically have that level of self-awareness."

I narrow my eyes at her. "I’m split into seven parts, it’s not hard to figure."

Her eyes widen with wonder, like I just told her I got her a surprise birthday present. "Holy faefucks, so you used to be whole, and now you’re split up? I didn’t know if you’d just always been like this. Oh, is that rude to say? I mean, you are technically a whole person now, just rearranged differently. Might not necessarily be bad, just different⁠—"

It’s bad. But I don’t bother clarifying that.

"I’m glad you find it so entertaining," I say with open disdain, then pivot to leave.

"Whoa, I’m sorry." Snow grabs my arm and spins me back around. And for some unfathomable reason, I let her.

"I didn’t mean to upset you," she blinks earnestly up at me. "It all sounds...complicated."

The litany of responses in my head ranges from snorts to laughs to resounding, damning silence.

"You think?" I throw the taunt but continue to stand there with her. Because she is still holding onto my arm.

Or because it’s a quiet, drizzly night and there really isn’t anywhere else to be. Or because her thumb has started to swipe back and forth on my arm, making me wish my sleeves were pushed up so I could feel her touch fully. My fingers clench inside the hoodie pocket.

My gaze drops to where she grips my arm. On the inside of her forearm, in ink that catches the streetlight with a faint pixie-dust shimmer, is a hand mirror. The glass is cracked, broken clean into separate pieces.