subject 13 // h.s. au

chapter eight.

The quiet whine of my ragged breathing filled the room, Harry's glare never softening as his imposing frame hovered above me. I flinched as his long obsidian-colored jacket grazed the top of my thigh. 

My mind was blank, and my body numb, unable to cope with the barrage of confusion and betrayal over the past few hours. The constant pain in my head was the only reminder of where I was.

The typically commanding and self-assured Harry now seemed flustered, his eyes narrowing, as he turned to look at the man still doubled-over on the floor.

12's light blue eyes flickered to mine before resting on Harry. His soft voice faltered as he spoke,

"Harry, I promise you she doesn't know anything. Let her go," he announced with a sigh. Oliver and the others had evidently explained some of the situation to my, still very much alive, brother.

 It was clear that 12 still had the ability to know what I was thinking after all this time, as he continued to look at Harry, avoiding me. He knew there would be no joyful reconciliation between us. Back in the bunker it had always been crystal clear, trust no one, and that principle extended to all my brothers and sisters. I never truly took that sentiment to heart, choosing to love and care for my siblings. 

But now? I had been betrayed by the sole person I had depended on and trusted unconditionally. He knew there would be no way to repair that kind of damage, and that in turn I had reverted back to my training, the protocol now my sole focus.

So, in an act of acknowledgement and acceptance of this fact, he had urged Harry to let me go. I felt a hint of guilt at the fact that 12 appeared to be someone Harry trusted, and I wondered to what extent Elias' past had been fabricated in order to gain that trust.

Harry stepped back from me, his back turning to face the wall with a shoulder pointed at each of us. His position in the room created a triangle, with him at the top and my brother and I angled at the bottom. 

Harry's eyes flitted back and forth as he placed a hand on his hip, his other hand raising to rake through his curls in frustration. With his hand now perched on his forehead, he addressed Oliver with skepticism clear in his tone,

"You know this miniature person," he questioned, lifting a hand carelessly to gesture towards me, "that tried to kill Oliver with a shard of glass and also beat the living hell out of you?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"And you want me to let her go?" he scoffed, the arm pointing to me falling slowly to his side.

I frowned. He had a valid point, but I was too distracted by the sound of his voice to react. I had never heard such a distinctive voice, austere and compelling, but the edges of his words seemed to twirl upwards, suspended in mid-air. 

It was simultaneously comforting yet unnerving, and I couldn't tell if my mind was urging me to get closer to him, or if it wanted me to run as far away as possible. He sounded like velvet.

I couldn't help but stare at his incredulous expression; it was a rare moment in which he didn't seem aggressive and dominating. With his wrinkled nose, scrunched eyebrows, and narrowed eyes, he looked tired and vulnerable. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, catching his lip between his teeth, and I couldn't stop my eyes from wandering. 

My gaze roamed down the bridge of his nose, pausing briefly at his full lips which were studded with almost imperceptible marks from biting, and my heart fluttered in my chest as my gaze continued down to the harsh line of his clenched jaw.