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“I’m going to take a minute,” I said to no one in particular.
Still holding myself in check, I walked into the grass, kept going until I’d reached a copse of shadowed trees. I reached out to touch one, dug fingers into the bark, and found focusing on the sensation—and the pain—made the anger and fury recede.
When my heart slowed, I pulled my hand back. I’d left deep white gouges in the bark.
“Those look like claw marks.”
I spun around, found Connor standing behind me.
“Just some extra energy to burn off,” I said, hating the monster for the necessity of the lie.
His expression didn’t change. “Your eyes. They were red. They’re silver now,” he added, probably having felt the punch of my suddenly panicked magic. “And I doubt anyone else noticed given the chaos. This was... what happened before?”
Another memory flashed—this time, the reason the monster had first overpowered me. Because she’d lain on the sidewalk like a broken doll. One of the men had held her backpack. The other had looked down at her with sickening interest, his smile twisted. And I hadn’t even tried to hold back the rage.
There was compassion and concern in Connor’s eyes. I’d have understood admonishment or horror, and they might have made me feel better. I could stop being angry at myself, let someone elsetake over. But I hadn’t earned anyone’s compassion, and I didn’t understand what to make of the sentiment coming from him, of all people.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, refusing to engage. But when I started to walk away from him, he grabbed my arm.
“It was the same thing,” he said. “It still affects you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. You can tell me.”
I looked up at him for a long time, into a face that was almost unfairly handsome and eyes that looked like they’d seen their share of darkness.
Ironic, wasn’t it, that the boy who’d driven me crazy for most of my life—and vice versa—was the only one who knew the truth? The only one I could unburden myself to.
And much as I wanted to pretend that what had just happened hadn’t actually happened, the secret—and the power—was eating me alive from the inside. So I let myself say the word, and it still felt heavy on my lips.
“Yes.”
He nodded, gaze shifting from me to the gouges in the wood. “Did that help?”
“Not really,” I said, and nearly smiled.
“Here,” he said, pulling off his tuxedo jacket, revealing his own torn and bloodied shirt beneath. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m okay,” I said, and couldn’t manage to tear my gaze from the sweeps of blood, the magic that drifted into the air from them. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine. Just scratches.” He held out the jacket. “Put this on until you can get fixed up.”
I looked down, realized my dress was ripped, one of the halter straps torn and unraveling, so the top was little more than a flap of fabric waiting for an opportunity to fall.
I took it from him, our fingers brushing across dark wool.
“Thanks,” I said, and slipped my arms into the sleeves and bunched it around me.
The jacket smelled like heat and cologne and a hint of animal that reminded me of wildness and freedom. It smelled like Connor.
I looked up at him, trying to get my bearings. “Are we friends now?”
“Don’t go crazy, brat,” he said with a smile. But his eyes were dark when he looked back at the vampires clustered on the patio and surrounding his Pack mate, accusation in their eyes.
• • •
The fairies’ interruption at the peace talks had been strange but nonviolent. They hadn’t managed to break the peace, only to bend it a little. But this was real violence, an undeniable breach of two decades of peace. This was murder. And how could we help Europe’s Houses with a cease-fire if we couldn’t even manage it in our literal backyard?
