Shatter-Me-PDF-Shatter-Me-Series-Shatter-Me-Shatter-Me-1-Tahereh-Mafi (1)

Oh
This was all a trap.
“Does this information make you . . . angry?” he asks, and
I want to sew his smiling lips into a permanent scowl.
I say nothing and somehow it’s worse.
Warner is beaming. “I never told him, of course, why it was
that you’d been locked up—I thought the experiment in the
asylum should remain untainted by extra information—but
he said you were always a threat to the students. That
everyone was always warned to stay away from you, though
the authorities never explained why. He said he wanted to
get a closer look at the freak you’ve become.”
My heart cracks. My eyes flash. I’m so hurt so angry so
horrified so humiliated and burning with indignation so raw
that it’s like a fire raging within me, a wildfire of decimated
hopes. I want to crush Warner’s spine in my hand. I want
him to know what it’s like to wound, to inflict such
unbearable agony on others. I want him to know my pain
and Jenkins’ pain and Fletcher’s pain and I want him to hurt.
Because maybe Warner is right.
Maybe some people do deserve it.
“Take off your shirt.”
For all his posturing, Warner looks genuinely surprised, but
he wastes no time unbuttoning his jacket, slipping off his
gloves, and peeling away the thin cotton shirt clinging
closest to his skin.
His eyes are bright, sickeningly eager; he doesn’t mask his
curiosity.
Warner drops his clothes to the floor and looks at me
almost intimately. I have to swallow back the revulsion
bubbling in my mouth. His perfect face. His perfect body. His
eyes as hard and beautiful as frozen gemstones. He
repulses me. I want his exterior to match his broken black
interior. I want to cripple his cockiness with the palm of my
hand.