And I have to admit that there is something undeniably fulfilling about hunting with Rosie. Somehow, it makes me feel as if the long list of differences between us doesn't exist. We're dressed the same, we fight the same enemy, we win together ... It's as though for that moment I get to be her, the one who isn't covered in thick scars, and she gets to understand what it is to be me. It's different than hunting with Silas--he and I are partners, not part of the same heart.
Jackson PearceTags: heart connection sisterhood sisters team fairy-tale warriors bond partner same fighters
When we were little, Scarlett and I were utterly convinced that we'd originally been one person in our mother's belly. We believed that somehow, half of us wanted to be born and half wanted to stay. So our heart had to be broken in two so that Scarlett could be born first, and then I finally braved the outside world a few years later. It made sense, in our pig-tailed heads--it explained why, when we ran through grass or danced or spun in circle long enough, we would lose track of who was who and it started to feel as if there were some organic, elegant link between us, our single heart holding the same tempo and pumping the same blood. That was before the attack, though. Now our hearts link only when we're hunting, when Scarlett looks at me with a sort of beautiful excitement that's more powerful than her scars and then tears after a Fenris as though her life depends on its death. I follow, always, because it's the only time when our hearts beat in perfect harmony, the only time when I'm certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we are one person broken in two.
Jackson PearceTags: energy fight heart connection sisterhood sisters fairy-tale bond red-riding-hood link
Wow,” Silas says softly as he kills the ignition. I follow his stare out the windshield—Rosie is standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded and eyes sparkling in anger. “Rosie looks . . . different.
Jackson PearceI didn’t know you’d grown to love hunting so much,” Silas notes, sounding genuinely surprised.
I backpedal. “I . . . I mean, it’s not about liking hunting. It’s about the fact that I spend hours training every day for solo hunts she won’t let me do. If I have to live the life of a hunter, I’d like to actually, you know, hunt.”
“Ah,” Silas says, though I’m pretty sure I didn’t make any sense. “Well, not that I’m in favor of her stealing hunts from you, but I’ll confess it’s hard to think about Rosie March on her own, killing wolves, and not get overprotective.” He paused, and he seems to be choosing his words carefully. “Even if you aren’t exactly ‘little Rosie March’ anymore.”
My eyes find his, trying to analyze the meaning of his words, of the change in his tone. But just as I finally take a breath and will myself to speak, the pipes from the upstairs shower rattle above us. I turn back to the oven, out of my trance. I’m overanalyzing things, as usual.
“What are you making, then?” Silas asks, voice back to normal.
“Um . . . meatloaf.” The sexiest of foods.
Scarlet . . .” Silas begins in a serious tone. He started using “the tone” when we were kids to remind me that he’s older than I am. It annoys me just as much now as it did then, only now it’s less acceptable for me to push him into the mud for it.
Jackson PearceYou need some help, Rosie?”
His footsteps quicken behind me, and before I can respond, I feel his calloused hands on my waist. I accidently slide back against his chest and inhale the scent that has always clung to his whole family—something like forests, damp leaves, and sunshine. I suppose when your father is a woodsman you’re bound to carry the scent of oak in your veins. One breath is all I get the chance for, though; he kicks the door open and sets me down on the front stoop, then takes a step back. I turn to face him, hoping to thank him for the help and in the same sentence admonish him for carrying me like a little girl.
Instead, I smile. He’s still Silas—Silas who left a year ago, the boy just a little older than my sister. His eyes are still sparkling and expressive, hair still the brown-black color of pine bark, body broad-shouldered and a little too willowy for his features. He’s still there, but it’s as if someone new has been layered on top of him. Someone older and stronger who isn’t looking a me as if I’m Scarlett’s kid sister . . . someone who makes me feel dizzy and quivery. How did this happen?
Calm down. It’s just Silas. Sort of.
“You’re staring,” he says cautiously, looking worried.
“Oh. Um, sorry,” I say, shaking my head. Silas shoves his hands into his pockets with a familiar sway. “It’s just been a while, that’s all.”
“Yeah, no kidding. You’re heavier than I remember.”
I frown, mortified.
“Oh, no, wait. I didn’t mean it like that, just that you’ve gotten older. Wait, that doesn’t sound much better . . .” Silas runs a hand through his hair and curses under his breath.
“No, I get it.” I let him off the hook, grinning. Something about seeing him nervous thaws some of my shyness.
Silas talks about San Francisco, so avidly that I think he’s trying to fill the air with words before it can be consumed with awkward silences. I don’t know why I feel those silences lurking all around us, but every time Silas and I make eye contact, I can sense them there, waiting to slip in and make me blush. I try to avoid his eyes, stealing glances at his arched brows and bow-shaped lips whenever he’s looking away.
Jackson PearceRosie flicks out her second knife and takes aim. It spins out of her hand like a star, straight at the Alpha’s chest. But the Alpha knocks it away easily. He raises a clawed hand at my sister and I feel a scream erupting in my throat, recognizing the motion from seven years ago. The swing will take my sister’s eye. I storm through the still-transforming Fenris, swinging my hatchet as if I’m hacking at tree limbs. Rosie’s eyes widen in horror as the Alpha’s claws being to descend. I grit my teeth and force my body forward, now ignoring the other wolves, desperate to reach her.
A roaring scream, all human but as fierce as any Fenris howl, echoes through the parking lot. My head snaps to see its source: Silas is running toward Rosie, hunting knives in one hand, axe aloft in the other. His eyes burn brighter than any hellfire. He swings out just as the Alpha’s claws are about to reach Rosie’s face, knocking the monster out of the way.
I wonder if he still hates me,” Silas says as the cat edges out from the couch, pale green eyes like little limes in the dark. As if to answer Silas’s question, Screwtape takes a flying leap onto his lap and begins to purr wildly.
“I’m not falling for this anymore,” Silas says firmly. He moves to push Screwtape away, but as soon as his palms are within a few inches of Screwtape’s wild fur, the cat extends his claws into Silas’s thighs. Silas winces and muffles a yelp.
“Need some help?” I say, trying to hide my laughter.
“That’d be great,” he answered tensely. I hurry over and scoop Screwtape into my arms. The cat instantly melts against me and rubs his face against mine, the scent of catnip on his breath. I crinkle my nose.
“Thanks.” Silas sighs in relief. “I can hunt wolves, but it’s a cat I can’t handle. Not terrible manly of me, is it?”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I answer with a soft smile that he returns.
Rosie!” Scarlett shouts. There’s fear in her voice, mixed with fury. I grit my teeth. My sister flings the bathroom door open, a hazy form behind the white shower curtain. “What happened? Are you okay?” she demands, voice dark enough to intimidate a wolf.
“I . . .” Scarlet,” I say, cutting the water off. I sigh and reach for a towel.
A voice interrupts my movement. “Look, Scarlett, come on, it was an accident—”
Silas rounds the corner. I freeze, arm outstretched and still a few inches from the towel, body half exposed around the curtain. His mouth drops, cheeks flush, and he immediately whirls around to face the hallway.
“Sorry, Rosie,” he said quickly. He puts his hands into his pockets and bounces on his heels. My face turns bright red, goose bumps scattering across my arms from both the cold and the shivery feeling Silas is giving me.
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