WRONG—
Her blade’s a cool slit across my throat—sturdy.
Poised.
One wrong move and I’ll be dead. Of that, I’m certain.
Sitting on my heels amongst the furs, I keep my hands steady at my sides as I look at Raeve’s blown pupils and fail to see a lick of recognition. The second time in as many daes that she’s launched at me and put a blade to my flesh. Only this time, it’s different.
Her defensive body language … the chasm between us … the vacant resignation that iced her eyes right before she jerked back her leg, snatched the blade from inside her boot, and launched forward with a snarl on her lips …
She thinks I’m somebody else.
“Moonbeam. It’s me.”
Her gaze flickers.
Slowly, I lift a hand, settling it over hers. She flinches, scanning my features like flurried brushstrokes.
“It’sKaan.”
The hardness melts from her face. She pulls a swift, shuddering gasp, eyes widening on the blade still clenched in her hand.
All the color leaves her cheeks.
She whips back, tossing the weapon like it’s made of fire. It skitters across the floor, all but forgotten about as she stares at me, unblinking.Unbreathing.
I reach forward—
She leaps off and stalks to the washroom, disappearing into the depths of it … leaving the door wide open.
Invitation enough for me.
The faucet squeals, the sound of gushing water flooding the room as I edge off the pallet and make for the washroom on deliberately loud steps, not wanting to jolt her into my untimely assassination.
I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and cross my arms, seeing her craned over the stone basin, hands perched on the edges. Her tousled hair curtains her face, making it impossible for me to so much as glimpse her features.
Silence stews. Something I’d be happy to weather until she’s ready to speak, except she’s scratching the already ravaged flesh at the sides of her nails.
“Raeve—”
“When we were in Dhomm, you said Elluin bound to somebody …else. Correct?”
My heart stops, like the words swung around and punched me in the chest.
Has she remembered Tyroth? Is this the moment she looks me in the eye and says the same words she once scrawled on a lark? The words I already know in my heart—that I’ll never be good enough for her. Strong enough.
Enough.
“That’s correct.”
She’s quiet for so long it’s like I’m lying on a rack, having my limbs stretched to their limit, my pulse pounding so hard and fast my head starts to spin.
“Moonbeam, talk to me.Please.”
She pushes her hair back over her ears and cups some water, splashing her face. The excess is still beading off her nose as she straightens a little, meeting my gaze in the ornate mirror above the vanity, as though bolstered by it. Something I struggle to appreciate, so gutted by her icy orbs.
There’s a world of torment in those eyes.
