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“Can you just…hold me for a little while?”
It felt wrong to ask this of him, but I never did the right thing. Maybe I was destined to cling to whatever hurt me. I heard him move. The comforter shifted. His warm arms wrapped around my shaky body. His mouth hovered over my ear.
“Rest, Christine. I’ll be right here.”
I sobbed until I fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-One
AUGUST
Atticus stormed into my bedroom like he owned the place, his jaw red and swelling. He had a bruise forming, and I wished it was me that gave it to him. “Why the fuck did I have to wait an entire day before coming here?”
Because you’re an insufferable asshole, and I didn’t want to deal with you.
“We were on lockdown until the threat was neutralized. Had to interview everyone and make sure it was safe,” I breezed, sounding like my mother when she made her statement late last night. She begged me to step up to the podium and speak, but I didn’t have the energy to answer questions from the nosy journalists horny for a good story. Rebellion sold newspapers. Murder made headlines.
“Bullshit. You just wanted to keep me from seeing Christine,” he seethed.
I shrugged while slipping my arms through the sleeves of a button-down shirt. I’d gotten barely any sleep last night, and it had nothing to do with the security threat we faced. I couldn’t stop imagining Christine with Leo. Were they fucking? Was he making her moan those sweet noises I wanted to keep to myself?
Atticus looked wrecked, from his wrinkled clothes to the frantic curl of his hair. I was enjoying this a little too much. “You’re here now. I’m assuming you’ve come to explain yourself?” I said before shrugging on my forest green jacket and scowling at my reflection in the standing mirror. I had to look poised. I had to look like I had my shit together. I had to look like facing my mortality yesterday didn’t freak me the fuck out.
“Explain myself?”
“You coordinated Christine’s fucking self-defense lessons, right? You…made her into that.”
He stormed up to me, his fist clenched at his side. “I turned her into a survivor. I encouraged her to mold her trauma into something empowering. You wouldn’t understand. You cope with pills.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “And she copes with spilling blood. I’m not sure which is worse.”
Atticus shoved my chest, nearly knocking me off my feet. “At least one keeps her safe.”
I smoothed my jacket callously, trying not to be bothered by the asshole testing me. The only reason he was still breathing was because Christine had demons that needed taming and apparently, he was the only one who could rein them in. It pissed me off, because we all knew I didn’t understand this side of her. I didn’t know how she could just fucking snap and slice that motherfucker’s neck. I was a lover, not a fighter.
But I’d fucking fight for ownership of her clit if that’s what it came down to. I wasn’t above letting her ride my face to let her know where she belonged. But the other shit? I had no clue how to navigate that, nor did I know if I wanted to. It was scary, watching her fight. She moved like a robot, acting on instincts I didn’t even know she had. And it wasn’t the blood or the gore that terrified me, it was the way her eyes flared with lust. The way her muscles were so controlled—so deadly.
What scared me most was being unable to recognize the girl I loved.
“Christine is stronger. Now we know she can take care of herself. With everything going on, it’s a good skill to have,” Atticus finally said, sounding surprisingly sad about it all.
“I’m not arguing that,” I snapped. “I’m glad she’s okay, but what if the next time she isn’t? We shouldn’t want her running toward the danger, Atticus.”
My words stumped him, and his shoulders slumped. “I know.”
I resumed getting ready for the day, flicking a piece of lint off my jacket before letting out a sigh. I had a feeling my mother would want us to put on a strong, united front today. If people were doubting our power, then we needed to show them just how powerful we were. The Military Games were coming up, and Victoria had made it her mission to use that as a tool to show our strength. “Did you see the news today?” Atticus asked, his tone…curious.
“I’m sure it’s drowning in speculation about the assassination attempt,” I replied with a wave of my hand.
“Not quite,” Atticus replied before pulling out his phone and showing it to me. I scanned the bold words, and rage filled me.
Lord Nathan Claims Christine Abernathy Is His Betrothed. Rebellion Questions if Augustus Is Fit for the Crown.
“That fucking little weasel. I’ll kill him.” My throat clenched with anger and also a hint of doubt. Was I truly fit for the crown? Did I have the people’s best interest? What if they saw what I saw in myself?
A failure.
A loser.
