Reveal Me (Shatter Me Book 5.5)

How long has it been?

The air feels cooler, heavier. I try to swallow and, this time, it doesn’t hurt. I manage to peek through two slits—remembering something about spiders—and discover that I’m all alone.

I open my eyes a bit more.

I thought I’d wake up in a medical tent or something, but I’m surprised—and relieved, I think—to find that I’m in my own room. All is still. Hushed. Except for one thing: when I listen closely, I can make out the distant, unexpected sound of crickets. I don’t think I’ve heard a cricket in a decade.

Weird.

Anyway, I feel a thousand times better now than I did . . . was it yesterday? I don’t know. However long it’s been, I can honestly say I’m feeling better now, more like myself. And I know that to be true because I’m suddenly starving. I can’t believe I didn’t eat that cake when I had the chance. I must’ve been out of my mind.

I push myself up, onto my elbows.

It’s more than a little disorienting to wake up where you didn’t fall asleep, but after a few minutes, the room begins to feel familiar. Most of my curtains were pulled closed, but moonlight spills through an inch of uncovered window, casting silvers and shadows across the room. I didn’t spend enough time in this tent before things went to hell for me, so the interior is still bare and generic. It doesn’t help, of course, that I have none of my things. Everything feels cold. Foreign. All of my belongings are borrowed, even my toothbrush. But when I look out around the room, at the dead monitor stationed near my bed, at the empty IV bag hanging nearby, and at the fresh bandage taped across the new bruise on my forearm, I realize someone must’ve decided I was okay. That I was going to be okay.

Relief floods through me.

But what do I do about food?

Depending on what time it is, it might be too late to eat; I doubt the dining tent is open at all hours of the night. But right away, my stomach rebels against the thought. It doesn’t growl, though, it just hurts. The feeling is familiar, easy to recognize. The sharp, breathtaking pangs of hunger are always the same.

I’ve known them nearly all my life.

The pain returns again, suddenly, with an insistence I can’t ignore, and I realize I have no choice but to scavenge for something. Anything. Even a piece of dry bread. I don’t remember the last time I ate a proper meal, now that I think of it. It might’ve been on the plane, right before we crashed. I wanted to eat dinner that first night, when we arrived at the Sanctuary, but my nerves were so shot that my stomach basically shriveled up and died. I guess I’ve been starving ever since.

I’m going to fix that.

I push myself all the way up. I need to recalibrate. I’ve been letting myself lose perspective lately, and I can’t afford to do that. There’s too much to do. There are too many people depending on me.

James needs me to be better than this.

Besides, I have so much to be grateful for. I know I do. Sometimes I just need to be reminded. So I take a deep, steadying breath in this dark, quiet room and force myself to focus. To remember.

To say, out loud: I’m grateful.

For the clothes on my back and the safety of this room. For my friends, my makeshift family, and for what remains of my health and sanity.

I drop my head in my hands and say it. Plant my feet on the floor and say it. And when I’ve finally managed to pull myself up, breathing hard, breaking a sweat, I brace my hands against the wall and whisper:

“I’m grateful.”

I’m going to find James. I’m going to find him and Adam and everyone else. I’m going to make this right. I have to, even if I have to die trying.

I lift my head and step away from the wall, carefully testing my weight on the cold floor. When I realize I feel strong enough to stand on my own, I breathe a sigh of relief. First things first: I need to take a shower.

I grab the hem of my shirt and pull it up, over my head, but just as the collar catches around my face, temporarily blinding me—my arm connects with something.

Someone.

A short, startled gasp is my only confirmation that there’s an intruder in my room.

Fear and anger rush through me at the same time, the sensations so overwhelming they leave me suddenly light-headed.

No time for that, though.

I yank the shirt free of my body and toss it to the floor as I spin around, adrenaline rising. I grab the semiautomatic hidden in my pant leg, strapped to the inside of my calf, and pull on my boots faster than I thought humanly possible. Once I’ve got a firm grip on the gun, my arms fly up, sharp and straight, steadier than I feel inside.

It’s just dark enough in here. Too many places to hide.

“Show yourself,” I shout. “Now.”

I don’t know exactly what happens next. I can’t quite see it, but I can feel it. Wind, curving toward me in a single, fluid arc, and my gun is somehow, impossibly, on the floor. Across the room. I stare at my open, empty hands. Stunned.

I have only a single moment to make a decision.

I pick up a nearby desk chair and slam it, hard, against the wall. One of the wooden legs breaks off easily, and I hold it up, like a bat.

“What do you want?” I say, my hand flexing around the makeshift weapon. “Who sent y—”

I’m kicked from behind.

A heavy, flat boot lands hard between my shoulder blades, knocking me forward with enough force that I lose my balance and my breath. I land on all fours, my head spinning. I’m still too weak. Not nearly fast enough. And I know it.

But when I hear the door swing open, I’m forced upright by something stronger than me—something like loyalty, responsibility for the people I love and need to protect. A slant of moonlight through the open door reveals my gun, still lying on the floor, and I grab it with seconds to spare, somehow getting to the door before it’s had a chance to close.

And when I see a glimmer of something in the darkness, I don’t hesitate.

I shoot.

I know I’ve missed when I hear the dull, distant sound of boots, connecting with the ground. My assailant is on the run and moving too fast to have been injured. It’s still too dark to see much more than my own feet—the lanterns are out, and the moon is slim—but the quiet is just perfect enough for me to be able to discern careful footfalls in the distance. The closer I get, the more I’m able to track his movements, but the truth is, it’s getting harder to hear anything over the sound of my own labored breathing. I have no idea how I’m moving right now. No time to even stop and think about it. My mind is empty save one, single thought:

Apprehend the intruder.

I’m almost afraid to consider who it might be. There’s a very small possibility that this was an accidental intrusion, that maybe it’s a civilian who somehow wandered into our camp. But according to what Nouria and Sam said about this place, that sort of thing should be near impossible.

No, it seems a lot more likely that, whoever this is, it’s one of Anderson’s men. It has to be. He was probably sent here to round up the rest of the supreme kids—maybe going tent to tent in the dead of the night to see who’s inside. I’m sure they didn’t expect me to be awake.

A sudden, terrifying thought shudders through me, nearly making me stumble. What if they’ve already gotten to J?

I won’t let that happen.

I have no idea how anyone—even one of Anderson’s men—was able to penetrate the Sanctuary, but if that’s where we are, then this is a matter of life and death. I have no idea what happened while I was half-dead in my room, but things must’ve escalated in my absence. I need to catch this piece of shit, or all our lives could be at risk. And if Anderson gets what he wants tonight, he’ll have no reason to keep James and Adam alive anymore. If they’re even still alive.

I have to do this. It doesn’t matter how weak I feel. I have no choice, not really.

I steel myself, pushing harder, my legs and lungs burning from the effort. Whoever this is, they’re perfectly trained. It’s hard to admit my own shortcomings, but I can’t deny that the only reason I’ve made it this far is because of the hour—it’s so eerily quiet right now that even delicate noises feel loud. And this guy, whoever he is, knows how to run fast, and seemingly forever, without making much sound. If we were anywhere else, at any other time, I’m not sure I’d be able to track him.

But I’ve got rage and indignation on my side.

When we enter a thick, suffocating stretch of forest, I decide I really, really hate this guy. The moonlight doesn’t quite penetrate here, which will make it nearly impossible to spot him, even if I get close enough. But I know I’m gaining on him when our breaths seem to sync up, our footfalls finding a rhythm. He must sense this, too, because I feel him power through, picking up speed with an agility that leaves me in awe. I’m giving this all I’ve got, but apparently this guy was just having fun. Going for a stroll.

Jesus.

I’ve got no choice but to play dirty.

I’m not good enough to shoot, while running, at a moving target I can’t see—I’m not Warner, for God’s sake—so my childish backup plan will have to suffice.

I chuck the gun. Hard. Give it everything I’ve got.

It’s a clean throw, solid. All I need is a stumble. A single, infinitesimal moment of hesitation. Anything to give me an edge.

And when I hear it—a brief, surprised intake of air—

I launch myself forward with a cry, and tackle him to the ground.