Page 74

For a second – one stupid, reckless second – I almost go to him.

‘You came back, Tara,’ he says warmly, like I’ve returned from some childish tantrum instead of crossing into the enemy’s arms and dying for it. The way he says my name nearly undoes me. He’s always said it like it meant something sacred. I don’t realise I’ve taken a step back until my heel grinds into gravel.

‘You always knew what I was going to become,’ I whisper. ‘You groomed me for it.’

‘It was for the good of the town and for the coven. All of this is beyond you and me.’

There it is. No more pretending. All these years I felt left out and as if I didn’t belong. Of course it felt like that, because it was like that.

‘Did you ever love me?’ I ask. The question escapes before I can cage it, raw and desperate. Of everything I could have demanded, this is the one that strips me bare. The most humiliating question of all.

For a heartbeat, something moves across his face and hope, traitorous and fragile, flares in my chest, but it isn’t guilt, it isn’t sorrow. It’s an assessment. His eyes sharpen almost imperceptibly, weighing angles, outcomes, the precise arrangement of words that will steady me, sway me, steer me. Even now – especially now – he is choosing a tone, a posture, a version of a father that will yield the best return. He isn’t feeling warmth toward me. He’s calculating, and somehow that is worse than if he’d laughed.

‘Of course I did.’

Did. Past tense. The word slices deeper than any blade. If he had ever loved me – truly loved me – the word would have fought its way into the present. It would have been reflex. Of course I do. Love doesn’t retire. It doesn’t get filed away like a completed task, but he says it as though it’s a chapter closed. There’s no grief in him. I see it clearly now, the careful distance he always kept, disguised as discipline. The praise, measured just enough to keep me striving. The affection, rationed and strategic. I thought I was earning a father’s pride. I was fulfilling a function. I was never his daughter; I was his investment.

‘But you would have died either way,’ he continues. ‘At least this way, your transformation serves a purpose.’

Transformation. As if it was an inevitability. As if my terror, my confusion, all the nights I lay awake, wondering and second-guessing myself for feeling the way I do. They were all necessary steps in his strategy.

The grief comes fast and vicious. My mind flashes through birthday cakes, bedtime stories, every ‘I’m proud of you’ moment in training. It was all a performance. He studies me now, assessing the creature I’ve become. There’s no horror in his gaze. Only appraisal.

My hands fly to my face, scrubbing at the tears before they can fall. They burn – hot and humiliating – spilling heavy against skin, as if my body is trying to remember how to be human.

The weight of the crossbow – restocked from Cas’s immaculate collection – feels heavy and traitorous over my body.

Terrance grins. Slow and wolfish, like he is just as prepared and ready for this as we are.

‘No need for the dramatics,’ he says, spreading his arms in mock welcome. ‘You’ve come all this way, Tara. I’d hate to greet you with anything less than warmth.’

‘Warmth,’ I repeat, voice flat. The word tastes rotten. A moment ago, I was breaking apart in front of him, grief clawing up my throat, memories splintering under the weight of what he’s done. I wanted answers. I wanted something that looked like regret. The ache in my chest folds in on itself, condensing into something like anger. I lower my hands slowly, letting him see my face, tear-streaked, yes, but no longer crumpling. ‘You tried to kill me.’

‘Ah.’ He tilts his head. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘You poisoned me.’

‘Did we?’

My hands curl into fists.

Theo’s voice is ice. ‘You knew what she’d become.’

‘Oh, of course I did.’ He glances at Theo like he’s barely worth noticing. ‘I expected nothing less.’

His gaze slides back to me. I stiffen, his words slicing through my heart. I feel every eye on me.

‘We want answers,’ I say. ‘I deserve to know what’s going on.’

‘Then step inside,’ he says, gesturing to the front door as if he’s inviting us inside for tea. ‘Let’s have a civilised conversation.’

‘No thanks,’ Kian cuts in, shoulders drawn tight as he stares back at Terrance with a cold expression. ‘You can tell us right here what we need to know.’

Terrance stands with his hands folded neatly in front of him, like a host expecting dinner guests. The shift in him when Kian addressed him is subtle. Barely a twitch of his jaw, but it’s there: the curl in his lip, displaying disgust.

‘You don’t get to speak to me, demon.’

Kian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. Theo steps forward, just slightly. Not enough to be aggressive, but just enough to remind Terrance that Kian’s not alone. Hunter mirrors him. Cas still stands off to the side, hands in his pockets, his expression is a mixture of amusement and boredom. Raya side-eyes me, offering me a small smile, as if understanding how difficult a position I must be in.