He scrubs a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to say, Katya?”
“The truth.”
“It isn’t going to change anything.” He splays his arms wide. “Look at this. Do you think I wanted this to happen?”
I take another step closer; he takes another step back.
“Who was she?”
“Katya, listen to me.”
Louder. “Who was she?”
“You know who she was,” he shouts.
“I want to hear you say it. Tell me that you killed Queen Diane and framed Leodin and me…” My voice breaks. I try to take a breath, but my lungs feel as though they’re full of lead. “How could you?”
“He deserved it for what he did to you.”
“They tortured him.”
“And how often did he torture you? How many times did he beat you or humiliate you? I’m not sorry I framed him. I’m only sorry I wasn’t there to pull the fucking lever when they hung him.”
I draw back. “This was because of me?”
“This”—he jabs a finger at the floor—“is because Troi is a sadistic bastard. This is on him, not us.”
“Us? Us?” I say, heartache melting into a molten-hot fury searing my veins and burning me up from the inside. “There is no us.There is only Aemon and what Aemon wants, and if that means killing a few people and framing an innocent male for it, so be it.”
“That’s not true. I—”
“How dare you?” I suck in a shallow breath, my throat so swollen it’s like breathing through a straw. I grip my aching chest. “How dare you make me love you.”
“Katya, please—”
I continue as if he didn’t speak. “All this time, knowing—”
“Katya—”
“My family is probably dead because of you,” I shout at his perfect, lying face.
Eyes pleading, he says, “I swear. I never meant for this to happen. Please, Katya, I love you.”
“Don’t you say that,” I spat. My whole body is drawn taut like a bow about to snap. I jab an accusing finger at him. “You don’t get to say that to me after what you’ve done. I—”
Gunfire rings out, and Aemon grabs me and hauls me away just before a chunk of the ceiling comes crashing down where I was standing.
“Come on.” Hanging on to one arm, he pulls me into a nearby room.
We drop to the floor underneath a window. My heart crashes against my ribcage, but I’m still angry enough that I tear my arm from his grasp.
Aemon peeks over the windowsill and curses. Lying back down beside me, he pulls out his knife and says, “Bellatorae. There have to be at least thirty of them. Dammit.” He glances around the room, as if looking for a weapon, like that’s going to help against thirty trained officers.
Outside, avoice calls out, “This is the Bellatorae police. In the name of the king, lay down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air.”
“Let me try talking to them,” Aemon says. “I doubt Troi’s bothered putting out a warrant for my arrest. I can tell them you’re my prisoner—”
“No.”
