The Unbound Read Online Free PDF

but brighten a little at the sight of the glittering equipment. It’s a pretty big step up from my makeshift gym on the Coronado roof.
    I hug the perimeter, taking in the scene. A group is playing volleyball, another jogging around the track. Half a dozen students are breaking into fencing bouts; Safia stands with them, fastening her glove and flexing her sword. I’ve never fenced before, but I’m half tempted to try, just for the chance to hit her. I smile and take a few steps toward her when a shout goes up from the far side of the room.
    On a raised platform near the edge of the massive center, two students are sparring.
    They’re standing in a kind of boxing ring minus the rope—both seniors, judging by the gold stripes that mark their gym clothes where the fabric peeks out from behind the pads. The gold is all I can see, since the rest of them is buried beneath padding; even their faces are masked by the soft helmets. A handful of students—I can just make out Cash among them, a fencing mask tucked under his arm—and a burly middle-aged teacher stand around, watching as the two boys bounce on their toes, punching, kicking, and blocking. The shorter of the two seems to be working a lot harder.
    The taller one moves with fluid grace, easily avoiding most of the jabs. And then, between one blink and the next, he acts instead of reacts, thrusting one foot forward and low before planting his shoe at the last moment, turning on it, and delivering a roundhouse kick to the other boy’s head.
    The boy ends up on his back, dazed but unhurt. I doubt anyone else noticed his opponent slowing his motion just before his foot connected, easing the blow. The teacher sounds a whistle, the students applaud, and the victor helps the defeated to his feet. He gives the shorter boy a quick pat on the back before the loser hops down from the platform.
    I’ve managed to make my way across the fitness hall while watching the bout, and I’ve just reached the edge of the group of spectators when the victor gives a theatrical bow, clearly relishing the attention.
    Then he tugs his helmet off, and I find myself looking up at Wesley Ayers.

FOUR
W ESLEY AYERS is the stranger in the halls of the Coronado.
    He is the Keeper in the garden who shares my secret.
    He is the boy who reads me books.
    He is the one who teaches me how to touch.
    And today, he is the guy on the stone bench, wearing a tux.
    It’s the end of summer, and we’re sitting in the Coronado garden. I’m perched on one of the benches in workout pants and a long-sleeve shirt pushed up to the elbows, and Wesley is stretched out on the other in his best black and white. There’s only an hour or two left until his father’s wedding, but he’s still here.
    Something is eating at him, I can tell. Something has been since he showed up, and I stupidly assume it’s just the fact that he hates his father’s fiancée, or at least what she means for his family. But he doesn’t offer any of his usual acerbic remarks, doesn’t even acknowledge the wedding or the tux. He just slumps down onto his bench and starts reciting the last of my required reading as if it’s any other day.
    And then, somewhere between one line and the next, his voice trails off. I glance over, wondering if he’s asleep, but his eyes are neither closed nor unfocused. They’re leveled on me. I return the look.
    “You okay there?” I ask.
    A smile flickers across his face. “Just thinking.”
    He sets the book aside and pushes up from his bench, smoothing the front of his rumpled tux as he closes the gap between us.
    “About what?” I ask, shifting to make room as he settles down beside me. He comes close, close enough to touch, his folded arm knocking against my shoulder, his knee against mine. I take a breath as his rock band sound washes over me, loud but familiar.
    “About us.”
    At first, I barely recognize him.
    Wesley’s hazel eyes are free of the eyeliner I’ve seen him wear all summer; his