“Look at me.”

I obey, lifting my head to meet his eyes.

He stares down at me, his expression fiery. His eyes are a strange, stark shade of blue, and there’s something about him—his heavy brow, his sharp nose—that stirs up ancient feelings inside my chest. Silence gathers around us, unspoken curiosities pulling us together. He searches my face for so long that I begin to search him, too. Somehow I know that this is rare; that he might never again give me the opportunity to look at him like this.

I seize it.

I catalog the faint lines creasing his forehead, the starbursts around his eyes. I’m so close I can see the grain of his skin, rough but not yet leathery, his most recent shave evidenced in a microscopic nick at the base of his jaw. His brown hair is full and thick, his cheekbones high and his lips a dusky shade of pink.

He touches a finger to my chin, tilts up my face. “Your beauty is excessive,” he says. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking.”

Surprise and confusion flare through me, but it does not presently occur to me to be afraid. I do not feel threatened by him. His words seem perfunctory. When he speaks, I catch a glimpse of a slight chip on his bottom incisor.

“Today,” he says. “Things will change. You will shadow me from here on out. Your duty is to protect and serve my interests, and mine alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

His lips curve, just slightly. There’s something there behind his eyes, something more, something else. “You understand,” he says, “that you belong to me now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My rule is your law. You will obey no other.”

“Yes, sir.”

He steps forward. His irises are so blue. A lock of dark hair curves across his eyes. “I am your master,” he says.

“Yes, sir.”

He’s so close I can feel his breath against my skin. Coffee and mint and something else, something subtle, fermented. Alcohol, I realize.

He steps back. “Get on your knees.”

I stare at him, frozen. The command was clear enough, but it feels like an error. “Sir?”

“On your knees, soldier. Now.”

Carefully, I comply. The floor is hard and cold and my uniform is too stiff to make this position comfortable. Still, I remain on my knees for so long that a curious spider scuttles forward, peering at me from underneath a chair. I stare at Anderson’s polished boots, the muscled curves of his calves noticeable even through his pants. The floor smells like bleach and lemon and dust.

When he commands me to, I look up.

“Now say it,” he says softly.

I blink at him. “Sir?”

“Tell me that I am your master.”

My mind goes blank.

A dull, warm sensation washes over me, a searching paralysis that locks my tongue, jams my mind. Fear propels through me, drowning me, and I fight to break the surface, clawing my way back to the moment.

I meet his eyes.

“You are my master,” I say.

His stiff smile bends, curves. Joy catches fire in his eyes. “Good,” he says softly. “Very good. How strange that you might turn out to be my favorite yet.”

KENJI

I stop short at the door.

Warner is here.

Warner and James, together.

James was given his own private section of the MT— which is otherwise full and cramped—and the two of them are here, Warner sitting in a chair beside James’s bed, James propped up against a stack of pillows. I’m so relieved to see him looking okay. His dirty-blond hair is a little too long, but his light, bright blue eyes are open and animated. Still, he looks more than a little tired, which probably explains the IV hooked up to his body.

Under normal circumstances, James should be able to heal himself, but if his body is drained, it makes the job harder. He must’ve arrived malnourished and dehydrated. The girls are probably doing what they can to help speed up the recovery process. I feel a rush of relief.

James will be better soon. He’s such a strong kid. After everything he’s been through—

He’ll get through this, too. And he won’t be alone.

I glance again at Warner, who looks only marginally better than the last time I saw him. He really needs to wash that blood off his body. It’s not like Warner to overlook basic rules of hygiene—which should be proof enough that the guy is close to a full-on breakdown—but for now, at least, he seems okay. He and James appear to be deep in conversation.

I remain at the door, eavesdropping. It only belatedly occurs to me that I should give them privacy, but by then I’m too invested to walk away. I’m almost positive Anderson told James the truth about Warner. Or, I don’t know, exactly. I can’t actually imagine a scenario in which Anderson would gleefully reveal to James that Warner is his brother, or that Anderson is his dad. But somehow I can just tell that James knows. Someone told him. I can tell by the look on his face.

This is the come-to-Jesus moment.

This is the moment where Warner and James finally come face-to-face not as strangers, but as brothers. Surreal.

But they’re speaking quietly, and I can only catch bits and pieces of their conversation, so I decide to do something truly reprehensible: I go invisible, and step farther into the room.

The moment I do, Warner stiffens.

Shit.

I see him glance around, his eyes alert. His senses are too sharp.

Quietly, I back up a few steps.

“You’re not answering my question,” James says, poking Warner in the arm. Warner shakes him off, his eyes narrowed at a spot a mere foot from where I’m standing.

“Warner?”

Reluctantly, Warner turns to face the ten-year-old. “Yes,” he says, distracted. “I mean— What were you saying?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” James says, sitting up straighter. The bedsheets fall down, puddle in his lap. “Why didn’t you say anything to me before? That whole time we lived together—”

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“Why would I be scared?”

Warner sighs, stares out the window when he says, quietly, “Because I’m not known for my charm.”

“That’s not fair,” James says. He looks genuinely upset, but his visible exhaustion is keeping him from reacting too strongly. “I’ve seen a lot worse than you.”

“Yes. I realize that now.”

“And no one told me. I can’t believe no one told me. Not even Adam. I’ve been so mad at him.” James hesitates. “Did everyone know? Did Kenji know?”

I stiffen.

Warner turns again, this time staring precisely in my direction when he says, “Why don’t you ask him yourself??”

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, my invisibility melting away.

Warner almost smiles. James’s eyes go wide.

This was not the reunion I was hoping for.

Still, James’s face breaks into the biggest smile, which— I’m not going to lie—does wonders for my self-esteem. He throws off the covers and tries to jump out of bed, barefoot and oblivious to the needle stuck in his arm, and in those two and a half seconds I manage to experience both joy and terror.

I shout a warning, rushing forward to stop him from ripping open the flesh of his forearm, but Warner beats me to it. He’s already on his feet, not so gently pushing the kid back down.