Page 23 of Uncontrolled

“Or what?” I snarl louder to compensate for his silence. “You walk? We’re done with whatever this is?” I twirl my hand through the air between us, the motion flippant and cruel and dismissive. He flinches. Inside, bits of me cringe.

“Whatever this is?” he repeats. “I’m involved, Allie.” His face corkscrews through disbelief, then anger, then hurt. “You don’t think we make a good team? The two of us?” he asks, and the question is so much bigger than the words it contains. Us. A couple instead of two people struggling alone.

We haven’t put a label on what’s happening. It’s too delicate, built on lies neither he nor I seem to know how to shore up into anything stable.

When I don’t immediately answer, his brown eyes fall to the concrete of the sidewalk as if searching the weeds there. I can’t stand seeing his doubt, because whatever this is, it’s important.

He whispers my name and the last of my willpower crumbles.

“Yes,” I blurt because there’s nothing I want more than him in my life, no matter how much I hate myself for it. “We make a good team.”

“Then why won’t you let me in?” he asks, and suddenly we’re having a vastly different conversation.

I think of my parents. Of Sarah. The closer Christopher and I get, the more we’ll risk for each other. “Because you’re going to die,” I say, too tired for anything but honesty.

There’s a pause, almost as if he’s making sure he heard me right.

“I’m what?” he asks. His tiny chuckle of disbelief breaks me.

“This isn’t funny,” I say. “I’m going to get you killed. If it’s not the hunters, it’ll be someone angry a resurrection didn’t take, or—”

“Or a car accident,” he interrupts. “Or a heart attack when I’m eighty and your wrinkly hand is holding mine, even though our fingers are gnarled with arthritis. Even though it hurts.” He rocks close to tuck that same stupid loose lock of hair behind my ear. “People die.”

“Around me? Everyone dies,” I say. “They die early and tragic, and I don’t want that to be you.”

For a long moment, he only takes me in. “It already happened,” he says. “Is this what you’ve been freaked about? I died. Right outside your door.”

“Exactly,” I cut in.

“And at the farmhouse. I died, and I came back to you.” Leaning forward, his lips graze the curve of my frown. “I promise I’ll always come back to you.”

“You can’t promise that,” I whisper, indignant.

“I can, though.” His mouth skims mine, the kiss impossibly gentle. “I do. I promise,” Christopher says, a hopeful glint in his eyes. “Accept it and come here.”

I stutter-step, bits of me resisting until his arms circle me and I cuddle closer. My head rests against him in the familiar spot where I can hear his heartbeat best, already settled to its steady rhythm. I only need a minute. One minute of calm and I’ll get my walls back up enough to protect him. His hand caresses over the back of my shirt.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Not on good days. Not when things go bad. Not if you don’t want to be.”

When I speak, the miserable question is crushed between us. “How do you not understand how this is going to end?”

“It’s going to end with us together.” His breath stirs the hairs at the crown of my head and a shiver runs through me. He sounds so sure. And yet, what he said is what terrifies me most. I don’t want to be there when he dies in a way I can’t fix.

By some miracle, he seems to withdraw the ultimatum. Instead, stepping away, he starts us walking. We approach the decorative gate, head through the path up the center of the backyard garden to the old Victorian, the steps leading to the hallway, the former servant quarters that function as my apartment.

Home, I think, ignoring the bloodstain outside my door. I’ve scrubbed the stain where I found Christopher dead a half dozen times. It won’t let go.

I slide my key into the lock and step inside. Christopher follows. The exhaustion I felt on the bus waned with our fight and makeup. Now, it’s an oppressive blanket. I pause, lost, not sure what to do next.

Lunch, I think. One of us should cook an actual meal from the groceries Christopher bought yesterday. We both skipped breakfast to catch the bus to Talia’s, so he’s gotta be as hungry as I am. Or I could have Talia text me the pictures of the hunters she found. Help with research. Or—

“Allie?” Christopher says.

My blinks are slow as I turn toward him, waiting.

“Hmm?” I prod. I’m having trouble focusing on him.

With a sigh, he leads me into my bedroom. Too tired to argue, I watch in a fugue as he straightens the fitted sheet.

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