Page 108 of Cursebreaker

“So do I!” My voice shakes, but when I step back, the water is there, nudging me closer to him. “But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t keep doing this.” I try to scrub at the blood under my fingernails. “We have only one Relic—one! And look what it cost us! And now—now this—”

He tries to reach for my trembling hand, but I jerk it away.

“Don’t you see?” I bellow, pointing at the scar on my forearm—the puckered P that brands me as a pirate—then at my neck, where the Deathwail’s rope left its mark, and finally, at the three jagged wounds where the siren’s claws marred my face. “We all bear scars, don’t we?” I hiss, throwing his words at him from the night we met at Bludgrave Manor, when he confessed to me that he was a part of the Order of Hildegarde. “What if Will is right? What if I’m broken and there’s no way to put me back together?”

He reaches for me again, but I evade his grasp as I run my hands through my hair, bracing my head, my eyes shut tight. “I belong with them—with the Underlings! I’m a killer—a monster—and now everyone knows it!”

A sob. A whimper.

“No one could ever truly love me.”

For a moment, all I hear is the rush of the water swirling around us. And then his hands are on my face, and all I can see is him—all I can feel is his touch.

“Everything Will said about me is true,” he whispers, breathless, and when I open my eyes, anguish twists his expression. “Every word. I’m a monster, Aster.” His eyes glow gold for only a moment, as if to prove his point. “But you were the one who showed me that it doesn’t matter what we’ve done—who we were before.” His thumb traces the scar that runs parallel to my jaw. “Our scars do not define us.” He leans in, exhaling a low, controlled breath. “We are who we choose to be.”

He searches my eyes, and I almost pull away when I see the red reflected in his blue gaze, but he holds me firm—gentle enough that I could step away, but tight enough to tell me it would break him if I did. His lips are a breath away as he whispers, “I love you, Aster, with every beat of my wicked heart. Scars and all.”

His kiss is slow—tender. Not a kiss born of want, or need, or even desire. This kiss is a promise. The promise of a future, together: Titus and Aster.

And I realize he never needed to say the words aloud. He’s said I love you in every action. Every time he stood by me, every time he held my hand, he was saying, I love you. I love you. I love you.

He draws back, and when I open my eyes, they glow gold—not red.

We are who we choose to be.

“I love you, Titus,” I say, and it tastes like freedom.

He staggers. Sways. Blinks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “I want nothing more than to be the kind of man that might deserve your love.”

I cover his hands with mine as the water closes in around us. “You already are.” And it feels like a luxury, like an awakening, to know that I mean every word that leaves my mouth.

His smile is the most pure, joyful smile I’ve ever witnessed from him—from anyone. It crinkles his eyes, wet with tears. It changes his posture; he stands a bit taller, loose, like the weight he carries in his shoulders has melted away.

He leans in as if to kiss me again, but the water subsides, the waves called back to the sea, leaving us exposed to the murmuring crowd once more.

But I no longer face them alone. Titus takes my hand, his fingers twined with mine even as pressure bears down on my shoulders and the chaos of the crowd threatens to overwhelm me. I expect that voice to return, to tell me I don’t deserve to be loved. That I deserve to be feared. But as my crew—Gabriel, Rook and Diana, Margaret and Eliza, Lewis and Charlie and Albert and Henry—all surround me, forming a protective circle, I know that isn’t true. And there’s only one voice now.

A voice within that says, Let them see me.

All of me.

I meet Father’s gaze as he extends the crown once more.

“Why me?” I ask, and I know he understands the true meaning of my question. I know that as the heir of Hildegarde, the people will look to me to protect them, to slay Morana and take back the full power of the Lightbringer. But that’s not what I’m asking. No. What I mean is, why has Fate ordered my steps, leading me down the jagged path, from moment to moment, breath to breath, until this instant, standing barefoot in the sand, a crown of gilded seashells held before me, heavy with the promise of war and bloodshed, a prophecy whispered on the tides and a song thrumming in my veins.

He tilts his head. “Why not you?”

He lifts the crown, waiting for my answer, and my eyes meet Mother’s. She kneels beside Killian, who continues to weep softly, whispering into Orella’s bloodied hair, and what I see there, in Mother’s gaze, is every word she never said. Every secret laid bare. Because in her eyes, I see the truth. It has always been me. Not because I was chosen, but because since I was a child, since I could hold a sword and fight, since I heard tales of the legends of the Stars and the heroes of our people, Mother knew I would choose this.

Because if not me, then who?

I might not have what it takes to lead—I might be broken, but that doesn’t mean I can’t choose to keep picking up the pieces. I can’t give up now—not on finding the Relics and ending this senseless war between humans, Nightweavers, and Underlings. Not on myself.

I let go of Titus’s hand and take the crown from Father. And then, I turn toward the people of the Red Island.

“I know you’re afraid,” I say, and though my voice shakes, it carries over the crowd, stunning them into silence. “That’s what Morana wants. She feeds on your fear, your despair, your doubt.”

I step forward, past Father. The people near the front of the crowd retreat a few paces—all except for a brave little girl who reminds me, for an instant, of Elsie.