I bare my teeth, fighting it. “I can’t,” I rasp. “I can’t think about her. I fuckingcan’t,Adriana! Stop it. I’m sick of other people hurting me. So please, just shut up.” My voice sounds like I’m begging. "I'll fucking kill you if you don't."
“Then don’t,” Adriana cries. “Don’tpictureher. Just—justfeelher.Feelwhat it was like to love her. To want something other than—than this.Please.”Tears are flowing over her cheeks.
My arm trembles violently now. The glass wavers at my throat.
“Rage is the last emotion to go,” she whispers fiercely, gripping my wrist harder. “Souseit. Be angryforher. Be angry at what they’ve done to you. They’ve taken your mind, and your body…but don’t you dare let them take your soul, too.”
Something inside me cracks, even if it’s the smallest fissure. Because beneath the rage, buried deep under drugs and shocks and blood and obedience, there’s a memory of warmth.
Of wanting to protect and love someone.
My fingers loosen the slightest bit, and the shard slips from my hand, shattering on the floor. I stagger back onto my ass likeI’ve just been shot again, clutching at my own chest as if I can physically hold that tiny spark in place before it dies.
Forget her forget her forget her—
No.
Yes.
Fuck.
Stop…
Adriana collapses against me, shaking, her hands sliding up to cup my face. “Come back,” she whispers. “Please, Jude, come back.”
I stare ahead, hot tears now falling from my eyes. “I don’t know if I can come back from this.”
She doesn’t respond to that. Instead, she embraces me tightly, crying into my chest while lifting my shirt to see where the bullet grazed my ribs. I’m bleeding all over the floor from my side and from where the shard sliced my collarbone. It’s deeper than it felt.
“Shit, Jude—” she’s panicking now, her hands pressing into my wounds.
The edges of my vision are darkening again, but not with rage this time. I’m tired…
“Jude!”
Chapter thirty-two
EMMA EASTON
The room smells faintly of shampoo and dye, the air warm from the radiator heater in the corner. Adela works carefully, scissors snipping through my hair, the strands falling in soft dark waves onto the floor. I’ve never seen myself like this—my hair chopped to a little past my shoulders, dyed a deep, rich brown that makes my skin feel tanner somehow. Heather sits on the bed, fussing with a makeup compact, eyes flicking up at me every few seconds.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says, tilting her head. “Seriously. You’re going to be…stunning tomorrow.”
Adela hums in agreement as she smooths the last section of hair into place. “My dress looks perfect on you,” she adds. “Although you need some help walking in those heels.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m used to smaller heels. Not six-inch red-bottoms.”
Adela smiles like she’s proud of her heels.
I tug at a strand of hair, feeling the weight of the change. “Thank you,” I mumble, my tone slightly uneasy. "I feel like a different woman."
"You are," Heather says quietly, like she's deep in thought. "I'm proud of you, Em. You're going to save his life."
I smile at my best friend, love bursting through every corner of my chest. "I think you'll have to show me how to use a gun."
"Oh, fuck yeah," Adela laughs. "Is our sweet girl ready to kill?"
I swallow and look up at her. "I'll do anything for him."