From him. From myself.
I don’t want to think about Gael—about what they would have done to her had they succeeded in whatever it was they set out to do. I don’t want to think about the thrill I got from breaking that man’s face beneath my fist. I don’t want to think about the way my skin mosaicked as that fiery rage busted free—sawing.
Slaughtering.
I certainly don’t want to think about that brief moment right before, when whatever it is that lives inside me sat up and stilled—listened—as though it were asking for permission. As though I could have possibly prevented it had I only known how to say no.
Or perhaps it’s something else …
Perhaps I said yes.
That—
I don’t want to think about that.
I realize Gun’s hands have stilled. “Is there anything you need me to do? Anyone you need me to take care of?”
I blink, letting my gaze drop.
He’s sitting on the backs of his heels, elbows on his knees and brow pinched tight. The fierce look in his bright blue eyes settles something within, like I’ve been drifting down that river for the past few hours and have only now stopped. Like that child deep inside—the one who gifted her brother flowers to be made into a crown—senses the anchor he’s offering me.
My bottom lip wobbles, a lump forming in my throat. “My necklace is broken.”
He nods. “I can fix that.”
He reaches out a hand armored with thick calluses, the lines of his palm telling a story of hard labor.
Another shaky breath.
I swallow, release the necklace. Watch it fall into his awaiting hand with a dense thud.
My mask peels down, freeing me from its soul-crushing embrace, and I watch all the color bleed from his face. Watch his eyes widen so much I can almost see more white than blue.
The basket that was atop Enry’s lap clatters to the ground, garlic bulbs scattering across the faded rug, and Gun stumbles back, gripping hold of a short, wooden stool. Eyes locked on me, he sits upon it as Enry leaps to his feet and dashes the curtains closed on the massive windows lining one wall, blocking out the bold glow of the lanky street lanterns looming over the world outside.
He spins and stares at me through glazed eyes.
“Aeshlian,” Gun whispers, as though the word is a stolen secret.
I blink, sending a tear down my cheek. “I, um … I think so …”
His eyes soften, despite the hard set of his jaw, knuckles clenched around the chain he lifts between us—my pendant and conch both swinging back and forth. “How long have you been wearing this, Orlaith?”
How long have I been hidden?
“For as long as I can remember,” I whisper, voice cracking at the end.
He mutters something that might be a curse word, spoken in a language I don’t understand. “Enry?”
“I’m right here, Gunthar.”
“Not a word to anyone, you hear?”
Enry pats his chest, face aghast. “Do you not know me at all?”
“I know youtoowell.” Gun studies the broken clasp on my chain.“Your mouth is somehow my least and most favorite thing about you.”
“That’s …” Enry wobbles his head from side to side, deliberating, “actually rather charming.”
