with your lips, but your mind was like a book.”
Snod didn’t know what to say. There were palpitations pounding so hard inside of his ribs that it
ached and his fingers clawed at the seams of his pants. He gulped, angry at being toyed with, asking
sharply, “Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you let me... keep going?”
Frankie’s hands pressed over his own, halting his frantic picking as he said, “Because that’s not all I
felt in the bond. I could feel your guilt, your indecision, how conflicted you were. It was tearing you
apart... and I could feel your love.”
Snod’s eyes widened, choking on nothing, terrified at being put on the spot to admitting the depth of
his feelings for Frankie. He wasn’t ready, not yet, but Frankie already knew, he knew everything—
“For Athaliah,” Frankie clarified, obviously startled by the look of terror on Snod’s face, “because of
how much you love Athaliah. I know that’s why you were going to go back.”
“And you never confronted me,” Snod accused, blinking in disbelief. “You never said anything... you
allowed me to suffer in my own wretched guilt.”
“Well,” Frankie said with a click of his tongue, “to be fair? You did deserve it.” His hands curled
around Snod’s, tangling their fingers together. “This is what I’ve been waiting for. For you to finally
tell me.”
“Why?” Snod croaked, a traitorous sob rising up his throat and tasting of bile.
“So I could forgive you,” Frankie said softly, his eyes bright even in the dim lights of the streetlamps
filtering into the interior of the car, his smile gentle and adoring.
There were many things that Snod had sworn to himself that he would never do over the course of his
life.
He would never know the embrace of a man, especially a vampire, and he would never leave the
Order. He would never abandon his faith, and he would certainly never allow a vampire to live.
All of those certainties had already crumbled away into a heap of rubbish as his entire world was
torn asunder, but there was one last absolute that Snod had been able to hold out on.
Obadiah Penuel Snod did not cry.
Tears were weak and offensive, especially during his lessons. He could feel some of the scars on his
back burning as if freshly struck, reminders of all the times he had dared to let a tear fall and paid a
heavier price to remind him not to let it happen again.
In this moment, he was failing.
