“Well, I couldn’t exactly choose the person I wanted, could I?” he snaps. Instead of heat, I feel the air around us turn cold. Enough to make goose bumps prickle across my skin as he glares at me, his eyes a livid, burning blue. The steam on the air clears on the current of cooler air, removing the faint barrier between us.
Shivering, I force myself to the closest window, putting my back to him. Outside, the magnolia trees shudder on a light breeze, their blossoms white and cream and rosy in the sunshine. Such simple beauty has no place here without the corruption of blood or ambition or betrayal.
“You threw me into an arena to die,” I tell him slowly. As if either of us could forget. “You keep me chained up in your palace, guarded night and day, You let me waste away, sick—”
“You think I enjoy seeing you like this?” he murmurs. “You think I want to keep you a prisoner?” Something hitches in his breath. “It’s the only way you’ll stay with me.” Water sloshes over his hands as he draws them back and forth.
I focus on the sound instead of his voice. Even though I know what he’s doing, even though I can feel his grip on me tightening, I can’t stop it from pulling me under. It would be too easy to let myself drown. Part of me wants to.
I keep my eyes on the window. For once, I’m glad for the all-too-familiar ache of Silent Stone. It is an undeniable reminder of what he is, and what his love means for me.
“You tried to murder everyone I care about. You killed children.” A baby, bloodstained, a note in its little fist. I remember it so vividly it could be a nightmare. I don’t try to force the image away. I need to remember it. I need to remember what he is. “Because of you, my brother is dead.”
I spin to him, barking out a harsh, vengeful laugh. Anger clears my head.
He sits up sharply, his naked torso almost as white as the bathwater.
“And you killed my mother. You took my brother. You took my father. The second you fell into the world, the wheels were in motion. My mother looked into your head and saw opportunity. She saw a chance she had been looking for forever. If you hadn’t—if you had never—” He stumbles, the words coming faster than he can stop them. Then he grits his teeth, clamping down on anything more damning. Another breath of silence. “I don’t want to know what would have been.”
“I know,” I snarl. “I would’ve ended up in a trench, obliterated or torn apart or barely surviving as the walking dead. I know what I would have become, because a million others live it. My father, my brothers, too many people.”
“Knowing what you know now . . . would you go back? Would you choose that life? Conscription, your muddy town, your family, that river boy?”
So many are dead because of me, because of what I am. If I were just a Red, just Mare Barrow, they would be alive. Shade would be alive. My thoughts hinge on him. I would trade so many things to have him back. I’d trade myself a thousand times. But then there are the newbloods found and saved. Rebellions aided. A war ended. Silvers tearing at one another. Reds uniting. I had a hand in all of it, however small. Mistakes were made. My mistakes. Too many to count. I am worlds away from perfect, or even good. The true question eats at my brain. What Maven is really asking. Would you give up your ability, would you trade your power, to go back? I don’t need time to figure out an answer.
“No,” I whisper. I don’t remember moving so close to him, my hand closing on one side of the porcelain bath. “No, I wouldn’t.”
The confession burns worse than flame, eating at my insides. I hate him for what he makes me feel, what he makes me realize. I wonder if I can move fast enough to incapacitate him. Clench a fist, bust his jaw with the hard manacle. Can skin healers regrow teeth? No real point in trying. I wouldn’t live to find out.
He stares up at me. “Those who know what it’s like in the dark will do anything to stay in the light.”
“Don’t act like we’re the same.”
“The same? No.” He shakes his head. “But perhaps . . . we’re even.”
“Even?” Again I want to tear him apart. Use my nails, my teeth to rip his throat. The insinuation cuts. Almost as much as the fact that he might be right.
“I used to ask Jon if he could see futures that no longer exist. He said the paths were always changing. An easy lie. It let him manipulate me in a way even Samson couldn’t. And when he led me to you, well, I didn’t argue. How was I supposed to know what a poison you would be?”