Elliot does neither. Instead, he keeps a slow and steady pace with me, one hand tucked in his coat pocket and the other hanging free at his side. It’s the one closer to me, and though I’vefelt oddly tempted to grab his hand, I haven’t. My willpower is apparently stronger than I knew.
“Did you tell me?” he asks, abruptly pulling me from my thoughts.
“Tell you…?” I trail off, eyebrows raised as I look over him. He looks as relaxed as he did yesterday morning, save for the slight crease between his brows. He’s still thinking about what I showed him. All the while, I’m doing my best to forget he knows.
I was so sure he wouldneverknow that I don’t know how to feel.
“Before you stole my memories,” he says. Then, softly, “before Igavethem to you.”
“You didn't give them to me,” I say. Mostly, because it’s true. Partly, because I can tell he needs to hear it.
“Did you tell me what happened?” he presses.
I breathe a puff of air between my lips and tilt my head toward the sky. It’s cold today. Not to the point breath turns to fog, but enough that I’m barely sweating.
According to Elliot’s estimate, we’ll reach the Cursed Grounds shortly before nightfall. It’s less than ideal. I can think ofmanybetter sleeping places that don’t include the term ‘cursed’.
“Secora,” he says. His hand catches my elbow, lightly enough I could pull away if I wanted.
I don’t.
“Yes, Elliot,” I say, forcing myself to face him. My hands are shaking, so I clench them into fists at my sides. Take a few steadying breaths. “I told you.”
“And?”
I stare at him, trying and failing to come up with an adequate response. With another heavy breath, I start walking again. Elliot’s touch on my arm drops, and he falls into step beside me.
He’s more patient than I deserve. Even as I can sense him twitching with discomfort, as though it’s taking every drop of self-control not to press, he doesn’t say a word.
“You believed me,” I say after nearly a minute of pained silence. There is only the sound of our boots crunching over fallen leaves and dried sticks. I have to swallow to keep my voice from cracking. “You believed me, of course. Never questioned whether I was lying. You were angry and wanted to help however you could…but it didn’t matter, Elliot.”
I sigh, pausing again. I can tell Elliot wants to ask more, so I put it off as long as I can. I gesture to a nearby fallen tree and sit.
“I need a second,” I say. Without looking at him, I untie my shoes. My feet will only hurt more when I put them back on, but right now, I need the relief. A break, no matter how brief.
“Hells, your feet, Secora.”
“I know,” I say. Blush rises through my cheeks as I pull off the second boot. My socks are black, but somehow, the blood is still visible on the fabric. I hiss as I unroll the socks, revealing my blistered skin. “I should have mentioned how rarely I hike.”
He blows out a breath, scowling as he takes off his pack. Sitting beside me, he gently takes my left foot and props it on his lap.
“You don’t have to?—”
“What happened?” he asks, cutting me off.
I watch as he plucks a deep maroon bag from his pack. It’s small, but it’s stuffed with different ointments and herbs. Elliot tsks under his breath as he applies something—maybe clay root—to my bleeding and cracked ankle.
I don’t immediately reply. I weigh my words carefully before finally responding.
“Harrison’s mama found out,” I say finally. I lift my chin to the sky, staring at the grey-blue as I speak. Elliot continues working on my foot, his touch impossibly soft and gentle. “Shetook over everything. Made sure it was all kept quiet. Kept it out of the public.”
“Secora,” Elliot says. It’s a hiss. No, a snarl. One of his hands shifts higher up my calf, squeezing, as if he can’t help but tense—but that he doesn’t dare stop touching me. “Did my mama?—”
“No,” I say. I make it sound as believable as I can. Elliot’s hands are both still on my foot, but his eyes have fluttered shut. “But it wouldn’t have mattered. I was a Dark One, Elliot. It was the safer option?—”
“Safer option for who?”
Despite the violence in his tone, his touch remains perfectly gentle. He switches from my left foot to my right, and it isn’t until he returns my first foot to the ground that I realize how much better it feels. The wounds still look as red, as angry, as they had, but now, they’re numb to the touch.
