Veronica Roth

I don’t think. I just bend my knees and jump.

“He” is the young man attached to the hand I grabbed. He has a spare upper lip and a full lower lip.

His eyes are so deep-set that his eyelashes touch the skin under his eyebrows, and they are dark blue, a dreaming, sleeping, waiting color.

His hands grip my arms, but he releases me a moment after I stand upright again.

The boy—Four—looks over his shoulder and shouts, “First jumper—Tris!”

Four sets his hand on my back and says, “Welcome to Dauntless.”

“Well, Christina, if I wanted to put up with Candor smart-mouths, I would have joined their faction,” he hisses. “The first lesson you will learn from me is to keep your mouth shut. Got that?”

The corner of Four’s mouth twitches.

“It must be because you’re so approachable,” I say flatly. “You know. Like a bed of nails.”

He stares at me, and I don’t look away. He isn’t a dog, but the same rules apply. Looking away is submissive. Looking him in the eye is a challenge. It’s my choice

But he just says, “Careful, Tris.”

Suddenly he presses a hand to my stomach. His fingers are so long that, though the heel of his hand touches one side of my rib cage, his fingertips still touch the other side. My heart pounds so hard my chest hurts, and I stare at him, wide-eyed.

“Never forget to keep tension here,” he says in a quiet voice.

I see Four standing by the door with his arms folded.