Shatter Me (Shatter Me, #1)

by Tahereh Mafi

“Juliette—” “DON’T TOUCH ME—DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME—” Warner’s gloves are back in place and he’s trying to hold me together, he’s trying to smooth back my hair, he’s trying to wipe away my tears and I want to murder him. “Juliette, you need to calm down—”

“Kent, Curtis, Soledad—take care of this.” Warner shouts to his men before scooping me up into his arms. I’m still kicking when the world goes black.

Someone’s hands are on my shoulders. “How are you feeling?” Warner is peering down at me.

but he just smiles. Laughs a little. Gentles my hands down beside my torso.

“I hate you.” “So much passion.” He laughs again. He looks so calm, so genuinely amused. He stares at me with eyes softer than I expected them to be. I turn away.

“Where am I?” Warner turns around holding a plate with bread and cheese on it. His other hand is gripping a glass of water. He looks around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “This is my bedroom.”

“Take me to my own room. I don’t want to be here.” “And yet, here you are.” He sits at the foot of the bed, a few feet away. Pushes the plate in front of me. “Are you thirsty?”

I’m struggling to reconcile Warner’s polarizing personalities. Here he is, offering me a glass of water after he forced me to torture someone.

I must be insane.

Warner sighs. “I’m not sure, but I think you fainted. And I think you should probably eat something, though I’m not entirely sure about that, either.” He pauses. “You’ve probably had too much exertion your first day here. My mistake.” “Why are you being nice to me?”

The surprise on his face surprises me even more. “Because I care about you,” he says si...

“You are a monster!”

“Because I can’t. I just—” He tugs at his fingers. Clears his throat. His eyes search the ceiling for a brief moment. “Because I need you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He walks to the candle. Pulls off a glove. Tickles the flame with his bare fingers. “You know, I am very capable of killing people on my own, Juliette. I’m actually very good at it.” “That’s disgusting.”

fear are simple enough. People are intimidated by me, so they listen when I speak.” He waves a hand. “Empty threats are worth very little these days.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” “And yet you claim to know me so well.”

“Well,” I rasp, “why do you need me, then? If you’re such an excellent murderer?” A smile flickers and fades across his face. “One day I’ll introduce you to the answer to that question.”

He drops the bread on the plate and drops the plate beside the water. Turns to me. Studies my eyes with such intensity I’m momentarily disarmed.

“Eat something.” His eyes abandon me. “Then go to sleep. I’ll be back for you in the morning.” “Why can’t I sleep in my own room?” He gets to his feet. Dusts off his pants for no real reason. “Because I want you to stay here.” “But why?” He barks out a laugh. “So many questions.” “Well if you’d give me a straight answer—” “Good night, Juliette.”

“And I won’t promise to make things easier for you, either.” There is no regret, no remorse, no sympathy in his voice. He could be talking about the weather. “You could be lying.”

“Good morning.” My eyes snap open with a start. I’ve never been a heavy sleeper. Warner is staring at me, sitting at the foot of his own bed in a fresh suit and perfectly polished boots. Everything about him is meticulous. Pristine. His breath is cool and fresh in the crisp morning air. I can feel it on my face.

I’m tangled in the same sheets Warner himself has slept in.

I look up. His eyes are such a strange shade of green: bright, crystal clear, piercing in the most alarming way.

His hair is thick, the richest slice of gold; his frame is lean and unassuming, but his grip is effortlessly strong. I notice for the first time that he wears a jade ring on his left pinkie finger. He catches me staring and stands up. Slips his gloves on and clasps his hands behind his back.

“It’s time for you to go back to your room.” I blink. Nod. Stand up ...

I hear Warne...

Warner seems pleased. “Their fear will work in your favor,” he whispers in my ear.

“Everything I do is done on purpose.” “You wanted to make a spectacle out of me.” “I was trying to protect you.”

“Get inside.” Warner has reached the elevator. He’s holding the doors open for me. I follow him.

He corners me.

His hands are holding my arms and his lips are dangerously close to my face.

“Yes, from my own soldiers. Yes, at the expense of one man’s life.” He tenses his jaw. Speaks through his teeth. “There is very little you understand about my world, Juliette.”

His eyelashes are like individual threads of spun gold lit on fire.

“You think I don’t know how many of my own soldiers hate me?

He closes the last few inches between us and my words fall to the floor. I can’t breathe.

“Go back to your room. Wash up. Change. There are dresses in your armoire.” “I don’t like dresses.” “I don’t think you like seeing that, either,”

He takes my hand, squeezes my fingers, says, “I’ll be back for you in exactly one hour,” and closes the elevator doors before I have a chance to protest. I begin to wonder if it’s coincidence that the one person most unafraid to touch me is a monster himself.

Warner’s words come back to me and I recognize his airy good-bye as a warning. A warning that severs every nerve in my body. Adam will be punished for my mistakes. For my disobedience.

“The purple dress,” he says, his voice broken and a little breathy like it hurts to inhale. I have to wring my hands to keep from running to him. “Wear the purple dress.” He coughs. “Juliette.” I will be the perfect mannequin.

I am not a doll.

He saved my notebook. Adam saved the only thing I own.

A new sentence not written in my handwriting. A new sentence that must’ve come from him. It’s not what you think. I stand perfectly still.

I do not tremble when I’m frozen in time. I train my breaths to come slower, I count things that do not exist, I make up numbers I do not have, I pretend time is a broken hourglass bleeding seconds through sand. I dare to believe.

Hope is a pocket of possibility. I’m holding it in my hand.

Warner is not late. He doesn’t knock, either.

“You hurt him,” I find myself saying. “You shouldn’t care,” he says with a tilt of his head, gesturing to my dress. “But it’s obvious you do.”

“I really like that dress,” Warner says as he slips an arm around my waist. I jerk away but he pulls me along, guiding me toward the elevator. “The fit is spectacular. It helps distract me from all your questions.”

“Your poor mother.” Warner almost trips over his own feet. His eyes are wide; alarmed. He stops a few feet short of our goal. Spins around. “What do you mean?” The look on his face: the unguarded strain, the flinching terror, the sudden apprehension in his features. I was trying to make a joke, is what I don’t say to him.

I wonder what he’s not telling me.

Only once we’ve gone down several floors and are making our way down an unfamiliar hall toward an unfamiliar exit does he finally look at me. He offers me 4 words. “Welcome to your future.”