The Ends of the World (The Conspiracy of Us #3)(69)

And then Stellan and I were lying on the floor staring into each other's eyes, but I didn't know why. There was something I should do say think his eyes were so blue, blue with gold and that meant something, I knew it, but now I only wanted to touch his face. My hands wouldn't move.

He blinked, trying to talk, but it was a wisp I couldn't catch. Just his eyes, his eyes watching me fall, like his heart was being ripped out. Mine too. He'd always understood me so well, I felt like he had one hand inside my chest.

I looked down. He did.

We were standing in a bright room, bursts of candy pink and lime green and electric blue and orange. Vines growing on the walls, dust and sunlight, moss and the thick, rich scent of mint and honey.

Stellan had his fingers curled around my heart, still throbbing, dark blood dripping from his fingers to the floor, a gaping hole in my chest. He looked at it like it was something beautiful, precious. And I-

I had his. Cradled in my two palms, warm, raw, just pulled out of his chest. "No," I whispered, to him, to me, to both. "Put it back." I couldn't be responsible for this. It was too much. And I couldn't trust someone else to hold my heart in their hands either, not after everything. It had been broken and patched together too many times; it was too fragile now. But I'd let him, hadn't I? I remembered now. I'd let him hold it. Given it to him, even. And he'd given me his. It pulsed in my hands, beat beat beat, all color and warmth and life.

"No," I said again. He looked up at me, all blue eyes and dappled sunlight. I can't lose you. You have part of me in your hands, and you will take it with you. The best thing is to put it back.

Please. Put it back.

I thought it was warm in here, but I was getting cold. "Put it back," I whimpered again.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and a jolt. I was blinking up not at the warm filtered light of the room with the vines, but at the night sky, and Stellan's face. "Put it back," I murmured again, shivering.

"Kuklachka," he said. I felt him set me down and lean over me. He was running his hands over my face, my hair. I reached up to cup his jaw, felt the scratch of stubble under my fingers. That warm room. Where were we? A name broke through the fog. "Anya," I said, my voice cracking.

"Omar," he answered, and I knew that was good.

And then I was awake, and I was sure of it because my head hurt, and my throat hurt. She'd drugged us. It had been a dream. Or a hallucination. My heart in his hands. I wanted to put it back in, sew us both up, pretend it hadn't happened. It was written all over his face here in the real world that he thought I wasn't okay and that his heart had been carved out just now. Mine had been, too, thinking Lydia could have caught him. He gathered me against him and pressed his forehead to mine, and we held each other, warm and alive, my lashes blinking against his cheekbones, while the stars spun overhead.

I can't feel this way about you, said the voice inside my head, admitting it even to myself for the first time.

"I can't not feel this way about you," he answered. "I've tried so hard."

Had I said that out loud?

A shout, and Stellan looked up. "I knew she'd follow us," he said. "I sent Omar with Anya in the other direction."



       
         
       
        

I sat, unsteadily, then tried to get to my feet. The edges of my vision fuzzed again, and then there was nothing.

• • •

The next time I opened my eyes, I knew where we were. The plane. I was on a couch and Stellan was on the one across from me, watching me openly. A little blond girl slept curled in his arms. The roar of the engines and a slight shake told me we were already in the air. Safe. Away.

Stellan was still staring, like he wasn't quite sure if I was really awake. When I blinked a few times and lifted my head, he closed his eyes and murmured something under his breath.

I sat up, and he leaned forward. "Be careful. You might still be-"

Anya whimpered, and he cut off.

I stood, gingerly, and grabbed the edge of the couch when a wave of dizziness hit. My bag was still across my chest, and I dug out contact drops.

"Are you-" he said, but his sister made another noise and he got quiet, looking down at her like he was cradling a poisonous snake instead of a skinny blond child with bandaged knees sticking out from under a dirty blue dress.

He didn't know what to do with her, I realized. Even the way he held her wasn't familiar, but stiff and awkward. I was surprised at first, but then I realized. He'd spent his whole life protecting Anya, but none of that time actually being her brother. He probably didn't know much more about kids than any of us did.