Page 7 of Uncontrolled

Christopher releases a dramatic groan. “My biggest fan,” he says and it’s almost amused enough to hide the hurt that flashes across his expression.

“Stop,” I say, my tone light, to match his, as if this is all a game. “Talia doesn’t hate you that much.”

He raises an eyebrow at the lie.

“She takes time to warm up to people,” I say.

“She leveled a gun on me two weeks ago,” he deadpans. “If anything, she’s gotten less enthusiastic about me being around you since then.”

Christopher and I haven’t talked about what’s happening between us, and until it’s crystal clear, I’d rather Talia thinks he’s still only occasionally spending the night instead of crashing on my couch full-time. Because he’s right. I can’t picture a scenario where Talia will ever be Team Christopher.

His lips brush mine and he grins against my mouth. “Kick her ass for me,” he whispers.

I nod against him before we separate and I grab my gym bag where it rests near his pack.

“I’m taking off once you leave,” he says. “I’ll be back later tonight, okay?”

“Sounds good.” I head for the door.

Even counting the time searching the ruins of the fire at Sarah’s, I haven’t spoken much to Talia since the night at the farmhouse. Barely enough to straighten out our stories for the affidavits we had to fill out explaining what happened. According to our official reports, I’d gotten caught up tracking a suspected hunter when he turned the tables on Talia and I, and he kidnapped us. We were able to kill him and escape.

No mention of Christopher because technically, he too, hunted us. If another cluster stumbles across that little detail, it won’t only be him in danger. In covering for him, Talia and I betrayed our own kind. While I accepted the risk, Talia got dragged along for the ride. I owe her a hell of a lot of favors. And we both know she can bring down me and everything I care about with a comment to the wrong person. Best friend or not, it’s leverage she’ll use against me, eventually.

I close the door and lock up out of habit even though Christopher’s still inside. Talia’s already halfway down the hall. I trail behind her, down the stairs, through the rose garden’s path to where her SUV is parked at the curb.

As I climb in, I wonder if today’s the day she cashes in one of her favors. When she does, it’s going to cost me.

A thin ribbon of blood stretches from my mouth and drips to the floor. Bent over, I groan. The split on my inner lip throbs where Talia punched me.

The gym we use is tucked in a small strip mall, the front room made to resemble a business perpetually outside of office hours with an unmanned receptionist’s desk and a quad of cubicles. The door is accessible by a passcode and swipe card combo that keeps the public from entering. In the back room, out of sight of the picture windows, is a larger area that holds a variety of machines and equipment along with a padded fifteen-foot square meant for the dirty fighting those with our aggressive ability to heal dare risk. Because it’s resurrectionists only, and because there are so few of us in Fissure’s Whipp, the gym’s usually empty. Today’s no exception. Talia and I have been sparring alone for the last hour and a half.

“Pay attention!” she grunts. Her right eye is swollen into a wince.

“I am,” I say before my cough sprays a fine mist of red to contradict me. My lack of attention allowed her to draw blood.

I dab at the leaking split in my lip with the back of my wrist. Resisting the urge to check the wound in the wall mirror that runs the length of the mat, I get back into fighting stance.

“You’re distracted,” Talia chides. “Stop thinking about your stray puppy and focus!”

“Don’t call him that,” I say, the words more breath than bite. I haven’t stepped foot in this gym in months and it shows. Even if my muscles know the moves, I’m horrifically out of shape.

I am also completely distracted. My brain snags on the press of Christopher’s mouth on my neck. The heat of his skin against my skin. And then the static chaos of realizing I might love him. Possibly. Maybe.

“What do you want me to call him?” she asks, all contempt. “Junior hunter? A liability to get you killed? Some random guy we know next to nothing about aside from the fact that he buddied around with the psychopath who wanted to harvest our blood?”

He is all those things, no matter how much I want to deny it.

“Be fair,” I say as I force her backward with a volley of ineffective punches. We’re long past warmups. I’ve taken a couple hits, but at the sacrifice of a bit of pain, I’ve got her exactly where I want her. Her moves are catalogued in my brain. Talia and I learned to fight before we learned to resurrect. I anticipate which attacks she favors in which scenario and why.

“He was best friends with Jamison for a good chunk of years, and it’s like they say. You are who you hang with.”

I duck Talia’s swing. “What’s that make me then? If you are who you hang with?”

“Well, you hang with me,” she says. “Which makes you a femme fatale with a love of caffeine.” Despite her swelling eye, Talia’s features have no trouble drifting from amusement to agitation. “Catch me up. It’s been awhile. Ploy weasel himself into a title yet? Roommate? Cuddle buddy? Murder fling?”

I don’t answer. She’s barely out of breath and I’m afraid more than a handful of sentences will have me passing out. “You been working on cardio?”

She ignores me. “Are you two friends? More than friends?”

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