“I swear to you, on my blood and on my steel, I did not know what my father was doing, nor was I aware of the true meaning of what it meant to be Marked.” I hold Wren’s gaze, begging her to see the truth in my eyes. “I was ignorant about what happened to the Given during their ceremonies.”
What would’ve happened to her if I’d brought her back to the temple.
I like to think that if I’d known, I would’ve done everything I could to stop it. That I wouldn’t have turned a blind eye to the horrors taking place every Giving Season, that I would’ve helped those being systematically slaughtered.
I will never know.
Blood trickles down my palm, but even though I put the dagger down, I don’t move to wipe it away. I would bleed far more than this for her.
Another endless moment passes before Wren moves. She looks at my shoulders and raises a shaking hand, tracing the air above my scars. Mapping them out without ever touching me.
“And your father did this to you.”
It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
She slowly nods, and I can see her mind working behind her eyes. Sounds of life filter through the walls as the camp wakes up around us, but none of that matters. I’ll wait for Wren for as long as she needs, knowing that her next words, whatever they may be, will change the course of my life forever.
43
NEVER LETTING YOU GO
WREN
Gabriel’s scars bear witness to the horrors he’s experienced, and they were inflicted upon him by his father.
His fuckingfather.
Even though I was raised knowing I would be Given to the gods in my twentieth year, I always knew that parents are supposed to love their children. For the suns’ sakes, that’s how we are designed—to love our offspring, care for them, and keep them away from the dangers of the world.
But as I’ve learned over the past few months, not all of us get to live easy, happy lives. Some people get sacrificed because they bear the gods’ blessings. Others get hunted. And some, apparently, have parents who use them as whipping posts.
My vision is blurry, and it seems I’m crying again, but I can’t find it inside myself to care. Gabriel’s father is the gods-damnedking, and he did this to his own son.
Those damned rage-filled crimson eyes flash through my mind, and I shudder. I hadn’t been in the king’s presence for long, but I will never forget the way he made me feel. Like there was a wrongness in his manner that leaked into the air around him.
And I was in Rose Palace for a single night, unlike Gabriel, who grew up there. I can’t imagine being near the king for days, let alone years.
No wonder he was so comfortable in the tunnels beneath the palace. Of course he knew where to go. He grew up there.
I should be terrified that the king’s son is here, with me. And maybe there is a piece of me that is scared, but overwhelmingly, I just feel so awful for Gabriel. Hearing what he had to go through and seeing the evidence of how he was treated makes the distance my family was forced to keep from me when I turned twelve seem like nothing.
At least my family didn’t hurt me. At least they loved me, as best they could.
But Gabriel didn’t have that. It’s clear his childhood was void of love, and that... that has my heart breaking for this man who once hunted me.
I have no idea how much time passes before I sniffle and dry my eyes. I get up and grab a washcloth from the bathing room before retaking my spot.
“Gabe?” I whisper.
He lifts his head, sorrowful eyes meeting mine. His hand still sits between us, the trail of blood drying now, reminding me of the oath he swore.
“Yes, Wren?”
“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
The words don’t feel like enough. Growing up, my mother always said that saying sorry was the first step to making things right. But what good are apologies here? How can such a small word ever repair the wounds that have been created over years?
