FIFTY-SIX
Warner has been asleep all morning.
He didn’t wake up to work out. Didn’t wake up to shower. Didn’t wake up to do anything. He’s just lying here, on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow.
I’ve been awake since 8:00 a.m., and I’ve been staring at him for two hours.
He’s usually up at five thirty. Sometimes earlier.
I worry that he might’ve missed a lot of important things by now. I have no idea if he has meetings or specific places to be today. I don’t know if he’s ruined his schedule by being asleep so late. I don’t know if anyone will come to check on him. I have no idea.
I do know that I don’t want to wake him.
We were up very late last night.
I run my fingers down his back, still confused by the word IGNITE tattooed on his skin, and train my eyes to see his scars as something other than the terrifying abuse he’s suffered his whole life. I can’t handle the horrible truth of it. I curl my body around his, rest my face against his back, my arms holding fast to his sides. I drop a kiss on his spine. I can feel him breathing, in and out, so evenly. So steadily.
Warner shifts, just a little.
I sit up.
He rolls over slowly, still half asleep. Uses the back of one fist to rub his eyes. Blinks several times. And then he sees me.
Smiles.
It’s a sleepy, sleepy smile.
I can’t help but smile back. I feel like I’ve been split open and stuffed with sunshine. I’ve never seen a sleepy Warner before. Never woken up in his arms. Never seen him be anything but awake and alert and sharp.
He looks almost lazy right now.
It’s adorable.
“Come here,” he says, reaching for me.
I crawl into his arms and cling, and he holds me tight against him. Drops a kiss on the top of my head. Whispers, “Good morning, sweetheart.”
“I like that,” I say quietly, smiling even though he can’t see it. “I like it when you call me sweetheart.”
He laughs then, his shoulders shaking as he does. He rolls onto his back, arms stretched out at his sides.
God, he looks so good without his clothes on.
“I have never slept so well in my entire life,” he says softly. He grins, eyes still closed. Dimples on both cheeks. “I feel so strange.”
“You slept for a long time,” I tell him, lacing his fingers in mine.
He peeks at me through one eye. “Did I?”
I nod. “It’s late. It’s already ten thirty.”
He stiffens. “Really?”
I nod again. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
He sighs. “I’m afraid I should get going then. Delalieu has likely had an aneurysm.”
A pause.
“Aaron,” I say tentatively. “Who is Delalieu, exactly? Why is he so trustworthy with all of this?”
A deep breath. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”
“Is that all . . . ?” I ask, leaning back to look him in the eye. “He knows so much about us and what we’re doing and it worries me sometimes. I thought you said all your soldiers hated you. Shouldn’t you be suspicious? Trust him less?”
“Yes,” he says quietly, “you’d think I would.”
“But you don’t.”
Warner meets my eyes. Softens his voice. “He’s my mother’s father, love.”
I stiffen in an instant, jerking back. “What?”
Warner looks up at the ceiling.
“He’s your grandfather?” I’m sitting up in bed now.
Warner nods.
“How long have you known?” I don’t know how to stay calm about this.
“My entire life.” Warner shrugs. “He’s always been around. I’ve known his face since I was a child; I used to see him around our house, sitting in on meetings for The Reestablishment, all organized by my father.”
I’m so stunned I hardly know what to say. “But . . . you treat him like he’s . . .”
“My lieutenant?” Warner stretches his neck. “Well, he is.”
“But he’s your family—”
“He was assigned to this sector by my father, and I had no reason to believe he was any different from the man who gave me half my DNA. He’s never gone to visit my mother. Never asks about her. Has never shown any interest in her. It’s taken Delalieu nineteen years to earn my trust, and I’ve only just allowed myself this weakness because I’ve been able to sense his sincerity with regular consistency throughout the years.” Warner pauses. “And even though we’ve reached some level of familiarity, he has never, and will never, acknowledge our shared biology.”
“But why not?”
“Because he is no more my grandfather than I am my father’s son.”
I stare at Warner for a long time before I realize there’s no point in continuing this conversation. Because I think I understand. He and Delalieu have nothing more than an odd, formal sort of respect for each other. And just because you’re bound by blood does not make you a family.
I would know.
“So do you have to go now?” I whisper, sorry I even brought up the topic of Delalieu.
“Not just yet.” He smiles. Touches my cheek.
We’re both silent a moment.
“What are you thinking?” I ask him.
He leans in, kisses me so softly. Shakes his head.
I touch the tip of my finger to his lips. “There are secrets in here,” I say. “I want them out.”
He tries to bite my finger.
I steal it back.
“Why do you smell so good?” he asks, still smiling as he avoids my question. He leans in again, leaves light kisses along my jawline, under my chin. “It’s making me crazy.”
“I’ve been stealing your soaps,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Sorry.” I feel myself blush.
“Don’t feel bad,” he says, serious so suddenly. “You can have anything of mine you want. You can have all of it.”
I’m caught off guard, so touched by the sincerity in his voice. “Really?” I ask. “Because I do love that soap.”
He grins at me then. His eyes are wicked.
“What?”
He shakes his head. Breaks away. Slips out of bed.
“Aaron—”
“I’ll be right back,” he says.
I watch him walk into the bathroom. I hear the sound of a faucet, the rush of water filling a tub.
My heart starts racing.
He walks back into the room and I’m clinging to the sheets, already protesting what I think he’s about to do.
He tugs on the blanket. Tilts his head at me. “Let go, please.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“It’s okay, love.” His eyes are teasing me. “Don’t be embarrassed.”
“It’s too bright in here. Turn the lights off.”
He laughs out loud. Yanks the covers off the bed.
I bite back a scream. “Aaron—”
“You are perfect,” he says. “Every inch of you. Perfect,” he says again. “Don’t hide from me.”
“I take it back,” I say, panicked, clutching a pillow to my body. “I don’t want your soap—I take it back—”
But then he plucks the pillow out of my arms, scoops me up, and carries me away.