Eve Silver - Push

Perfect. I’m crying. I rub away the tears with the heel of my palm. “I hate you,” I whisper, wishing it were true.

“Do you now?” His smile is hard and dangerous, and I can feel something coiled tight between us. Anger? Yeah . . . but something else, too.

Then he shifts even closer, his palms cupping my cheeks. I should slap his hands away. I should scoot back on the branch. But I don’t. I close my fingers around his wrists and just hold on.

Every cell in my body reacts to him. My lips part. My breath comes too fast.

He lowers his mouth to mine, his kiss both hard and soft, tasting like mint.

He drinks me in, a boy parched, and I am the deep, cool well. I’m falling, lost in him, lost in this, the wonder of his kiss, lips and tongue and the scrape of his teeth.

I want to lean in closer, tangle my fingers in his hair, and kiss him deeper, harder.

Then I remember that he’s kissing me after telling me I shouldn’t be here.

He doesn’t want me here.

I’m about to bite him when he pulls away.

“My being here is so terrible that you just had to kiss me?” Glaring at him, I drag the back of my hand across my mouth. I don’t get it. Don’t get him. His touch, his kiss, tell me I’m the most important thing in his world. His words tell me I don’t matter at all.

Seconds tick past before he clips out, “Yes.”

His answer releases a flood of anger and resentment and, yeah, embarrassment, icy and razor bright. I scoot away, ready to swing down. “Fine. I’ll leave.”

“No, you won’t.” Last word. Some things don’t change.

He catches my wrists and pulls my hands from the branch, sandwiching them between his larger ones. “You were supposed to forget,” he says, sounding like every word is ripped from him, all the emotion that was missing from his voice earlier there now.

I freeze. “Forget what?”

“Me. You aren’t supposed to be here because you’re supposed to have no memories of me.” His lips thin. “I was trying to be the good guy. Not exactly my forte, Miki.”

“Why would I have no memories of . . . ?” I don’t understand. Trying to be the good . . . “No,” I whisper, finally getting it. “What did you do, Jackson?”

“Wasn’t that just my line?” He tips his head back, face to the sky. “What did I do? I think I got played.” He faces me once more. “And here I thought I was being so smart. Not to mention the whole self-sacrificing, nobility thing I was aiming for. I didn’t even give in to the urge to stand up the street and watch your window last night. Didn’t want to jeopardize the Committee’s good will.”

“Watch my window? You were going to do that?”

“Nothing I haven’t done before.”

“Stalker much?” I ask without heat.

“Funny accusation from the girl who climbed a tree to peek in my window.”

His answers are flip, but there’s an undercurrent to every word.

“Why would standing on my street jeopardize the Committee’s good will?”

I reach for his glasses. He catches my wrist, but doesn’t stop me as I push them up onto his forehead.

We stare at each other. His eyes are Drau gray, foreign and beautiful, framed by long, incongruously dark, spiky lashes—Carly would say girl lashes. They’re the only remotely girly thing about him.

“Do you know how I felt when I looked up and saw you sitting out here?” he rasps, ignoring my question.

“Tell me,” I whisper. My chest is tight. I can’t draw a full breath.

His lashes sweeping down, hiding his eyes. “It was one of the best and worst seconds of my life.”

“Best?”

His lashes sweep up and he stares into my eyes. “Because there you were, right outside my window.”

My heart does this crazy little dance in my chest. These were the words I wanted, the ones I was hoping for when I came here.

“Worst?”

He takes a long time to answer, then finally says, “Because there you were, right outside my window.” He turns my hand palm up, traces the tip of his index finger along my lifeline. “You were supposed to forget. But you didn’t. You remember me. And you remember the game.”

“Why wouldn’t I remember?”

Why am I asking? I know the answer even before he says, “When you’re out of the game, you don’t remember the game.” He turns his face away and stares off into the distance. “But you aren’t out of the game, are you, Miki? It was all for nothing.”

He sounds so bleak. I remember him screaming inside my head, his pain and anguish. A chill crawls up my spine.

“I think you have this backward.” I start to pull my hand from his, but he tightens his fingers, refusing to let me sever the connection. “You’re supposed to be the one who’s out of the game, Jackson. That’s why you brought me into it. So you could be free.”

I can’t help the tinge of venom that colors those last words. Now that he’s here, in front of me, safe and healthy and whole, the recollection that he betrayed me in the first place resurfaces. And it hurts.

In that second, I’m furious with myself for fixating on that, holding on to the hurt. How many times has Dr. Andrews told me that one of the roads to happiness is letting go of grudges? Forgiving. Moving on.

“That was the plan.”

“What went wrong?”

His face jerks toward me. “Plans change. Why do you think something went wrong?”

“Because you were in Detroit. And I was already team leader by that point. You should have been out.”

“I asked to go on one last run.”

“Why would you—”

The way he looks at me stops my question cold. He asked to go because of me. To protect me.

“You almost died,” I whisper.

“I knew the risks going in.”

“Just like you knew the rules? You know . . . the ones you broke?”

“Which rule would that be?”

“Drawing my life force.”

“It was either break the rules or die.” His smile is self-deprecating. “Regrets, Miki?”

“No.” I shudder at the thought that he might have died there.

“Then why are you so pissed?”

He’s goading me. I can feel it. I won’t give him the win. I force my tone to stay calm and even as I say, “I’m angry with you for bringing me into the game and then not getting out, not being safe, away from all of this. For wasting your chance. And I’m angry with you for not telling me the truth, for not warning me about the consequences of what we did.” I would still have made the exact same choice, but I wouldn’t have gone in blind. “You knew you’re not allowed. They told you that after . . .” My words trail away. I don’t need to remind him how his sister died.

But he says it for me, repeating a fragment of the story he told me once before, his tone hard and liquid-nitrogen cold. “You can say it, Miki. After I killed my sister. After I made like a Drau and sucked the life out of her, changing my con from red to yellow and hers from yellow to red. I traded her life for mine.”

There’s the Jackson I know: moody, bossy, cocky, a little scary, and chock-full of self-hate. And even though I haven’t forgiven him for what he did to me, I can’t bear to see him suffering.

It’s one thing for me to be pissed at him, something else entirely for him to be so angry with himself.

“You were twelve years old, Jackson. It was your first mission. You were dying, terrified. She told you to do it, that it would be okay. She was your big sister. You were used to believing her, to doing what she said. Why would that time be any different?”

“You think that excuses me? Cuz I sure don’t. I killed my sister and then I got hauled in front of the Committee, warned that if I ever did the Drau thing again it would be game over. Then next chance I get, I do the same damn thing and almost kill you.”