she scrunched up her whole face as if biting into a lemon. Eyelids twitching, she managed to squint up at him.
“Cinder?”
She eased herself up to sitting. Her jaw and tongue worked silently for a moment and when she spoke, the words were heavily slurred. “Auto-control defaults … almost drained my power system.”
“I think it did drain your power system.”
She frowned and seemed momentarily uncertain, before reaching for the cord still plugged into her brain. Yanking it out, she slammed the panel shut. “You opened my control panel?” she said, her words a little clearer with anger behind them.
He scowled. “I didn’t want to.”
Her expression was sour as she peered at him—not entirely angry, but not grateful either. They stared at each other for a long time, as the engine hummed across the hallway and a light in the corner started to go out, flickering at random intervals.
“Well,” Cinder finally grumbled. “I guess that was pretty fast thinking.”
A relieved grin filled up Thorne’s face. “We’re having another moment, aren’t we?”
“If by a moment, you mean me not wanting to strangle you for the first time since we met, then I guess we are.” Cinder slumped back on the floor. “Although maybe I’m just too exhausted to want to strangle anybody.”
“I’ll take it,” said Thorne, stretching out on the floor beside her and enjoying the cold hardness of the dock’s floor, the obnoxiously glaring lights overhead, the stink of sewage on their clothes, and the perfect sensation of freedom.
BOOK
Two
Little Red was a tender young morsel, and the wolf knew she would be even tastier than the old woman.
Eleven
The egg hissed as it slid into the melted butter, its vivid yolk drizzling into the white. Scarlet brushed a tufted feather off the next egg before cracking it open with one hand, simultaneously pushing the spatula across the bottom of the pan. The oozing whites grew opaque, fluffed up, developed a crackling film near the pan’s edges.
Otherwise, the house was silent. She’d checked in on her dad when she’d gotten home from the fight and found him comatose in her grandma’s bed, a bottle of whiskey stolen from the kitchen left open on the dresser.
She’d emptied the rest of the whiskey into the garden, along with every other bottle of liquor she could find, then spent four hours tossing in her own bed. Her head was full with the previous evening: the burn marks on her dad’s arm, the terror in his face, his desperation to find whatever her grand-mère had hidden.
And Wolf, with his tattoo and his intense looks and his almost-convincing tone: It wasn’t me.
Letting the spatula balance on the edge of the pan, Scarlet pulled a plate from the cabinet and sliced a hunk of stale bread from the loaf on the counter. The horizon was glowing and a clear sky promised another sunny day, but a wind had kicked up in the night, tossing the cornstalks and whistling past the chimney. A rooster crowed in the yard.
Sighing, she spooned the eggs onto the plate before sitting down at the dining table. She shoveled the food into her mouth while her hunger was stronger than her nerves. With her free hand, she reached for the portscreen on the table and established a netlink. “Search,” she muttered through a half-full mouth. “Tattoo L-S-O-P.”
U NABLE TO IDENTIFY COMMAND.
Grumbling, she typed in the terms and swallowed the last of the eggs while a stream of links came up: Extreme tattoos. Tattoo designs. Virtual tattoo models. The science behind tattoo removal. The latest in tattoo technology, virtually painless!
She tried: T ATTOO LSOP 962
No matches found.
She picked up the bread and ripped out a hunk with her teeth.
F OREARM TATTOO NUMBERS
A collection of images filled the screen, arms skinny and bulky, pale and dark, covered with garish drawings or displaying small, tiny symbols on their wrists. Thirteens and Roman numerals, birthdates and geographical
“Cinder?”
She eased herself up to sitting. Her jaw and tongue worked silently for a moment and when she spoke, the words were heavily slurred. “Auto-control defaults … almost drained my power system.”
“I think it did drain your power system.”
She frowned and seemed momentarily uncertain, before reaching for the cord still plugged into her brain. Yanking it out, she slammed the panel shut. “You opened my control panel?” she said, her words a little clearer with anger behind them.
He scowled. “I didn’t want to.”
Her expression was sour as she peered at him—not entirely angry, but not grateful either. They stared at each other for a long time, as the engine hummed across the hallway and a light in the corner started to go out, flickering at random intervals.
“Well,” Cinder finally grumbled. “I guess that was pretty fast thinking.”
A relieved grin filled up Thorne’s face. “We’re having another moment, aren’t we?”
“If by a moment, you mean me not wanting to strangle you for the first time since we met, then I guess we are.” Cinder slumped back on the floor. “Although maybe I’m just too exhausted to want to strangle anybody.”
“I’ll take it,” said Thorne, stretching out on the floor beside her and enjoying the cold hardness of the dock’s floor, the obnoxiously glaring lights overhead, the stink of sewage on their clothes, and the perfect sensation of freedom.
BOOK
Two
Little Red was a tender young morsel, and the wolf knew she would be even tastier than the old woman.
Eleven
The egg hissed as it slid into the melted butter, its vivid yolk drizzling into the white. Scarlet brushed a tufted feather off the next egg before cracking it open with one hand, simultaneously pushing the spatula across the bottom of the pan. The oozing whites grew opaque, fluffed up, developed a crackling film near the pan’s edges.
Otherwise, the house was silent. She’d checked in on her dad when she’d gotten home from the fight and found him comatose in her grandma’s bed, a bottle of whiskey stolen from the kitchen left open on the dresser.
She’d emptied the rest of the whiskey into the garden, along with every other bottle of liquor she could find, then spent four hours tossing in her own bed. Her head was full with the previous evening: the burn marks on her dad’s arm, the terror in his face, his desperation to find whatever her grand-mère had hidden.
And Wolf, with his tattoo and his intense looks and his almost-convincing tone: It wasn’t me.
Letting the spatula balance on the edge of the pan, Scarlet pulled a plate from the cabinet and sliced a hunk of stale bread from the loaf on the counter. The horizon was glowing and a clear sky promised another sunny day, but a wind had kicked up in the night, tossing the cornstalks and whistling past the chimney. A rooster crowed in the yard.
Sighing, she spooned the eggs onto the plate before sitting down at the dining table. She shoveled the food into her mouth while her hunger was stronger than her nerves. With her free hand, she reached for the portscreen on the table and established a netlink. “Search,” she muttered through a half-full mouth. “Tattoo L-S-O-P.”
U NABLE TO IDENTIFY COMMAND.
Grumbling, she typed in the terms and swallowed the last of the eggs while a stream of links came up: Extreme tattoos. Tattoo designs. Virtual tattoo models. The science behind tattoo removal. The latest in tattoo technology, virtually painless!
She tried: T ATTOO LSOP 962
No matches found.
She picked up the bread and ripped out a hunk with her teeth.
F OREARM TATTOO NUMBERS
A collection of images filled the screen, arms skinny and bulky, pale and dark, covered with garish drawings or displaying small, tiny symbols on their wrists. Thirteens and Roman numerals, birthdates and geographical
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