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With them, could I maybe have somethingmorethan just normal?
Pages of an old book rustled, buried beneath tomes dedicated to years of survival.
Would the Kingsman pack mind if I wanted to take a serious job in the Arkology field? And what about a library? And I’d always loved looking at Uncle’s aquarium. I wanted my own Angelfish one day… And then, what about…?
Hmm.
I shrank, fingers finding the star on my necklace.
That was probably too far, right?
Once, I’d collected picture after picture from magazines, building the image of another dream. One so daring for a person with eyes like mine that I ripped it up the moment I’d finished making it.
Too far, Shatter. Definitely too far.
I rapped my fists together anxiously, eyes darting back down the hallway.
But what ifthey alsohappened to want a beach wedding? Barefoot at sunset, with an archway decorated with seashells… It looked so pretty in the pictures. Even if I didn’t think I’d ever been to a beach, memories of smells didn’t come when I tried to imagine it. But I needed to pull myself together. We didn’t even know how bonds would work yet….
I pushed Dusk’s door open, a daring smile on my lips, but the room within was empty.
My gaze dropped to the bed.
What was that…?
That warmth I felt flickered as I crossed toward the open binder and stared down at it.
I blinked, all the daring, blinding, brilliant hope vanished at once, leaving me in the cold.
I found myself confronted with a photo of me. Years old. I was in a white gown—though in this photo I was as far from a beach wedding as it was possible to be. My hair was tied back, expression drawn, and my face gaunt. Seeing it was like a shot of memories injected into my brain.
White walls.
Machines and pain; needles and drugs.
‘Subject One’, I was named. I knew where that was from.
Why did Dusk have this?
I sifted through the stack, heart growing heavy, chest constricting with every second.
There were more. And not just of me. Dusk’s handwriting scrawled across a file on Ransom.
“Did she become Ransom’s cure?”
My blood chilled.
I picked up the file, a high-pitched ringing in my ears, and scanned a few of the pages, eyes drawn to the handwriting on top of the printed text.
There was a list of what I thought were potential cures, some crossed out. I stopped on one.
‘Omega bond—potential to balance and heal’.
Beside it was the note:
‘Too risky. Can’t justify a permanent bond unless we are certain it will work as a cure’.
I read that twice, ice crystallising in my stomach. I glanced back at the first note I’d seen. The one about me being Ransom’s cure.
