I brush my thumb over the words.
It’s hard to sense honesty through text, especially when I can’t feel him. But just thinking about him conjures an image instantly.
I remember how Ezekial looked when he realised I wasn’t just an empath, but a mind melder. That flash of silver fury, the helpless grief tightening his expression when he understood what I must’ve endured because he had too.
He cared. He wanted revenge for me. I remind myself of that, because you can’t fake that kind of emotion. It was real.
Just when I think we’re done, another message lights the screen.
Ezekial: And may the best kidnapper win.
I’m losing my mind. I must be. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why I’m sitting here, smiling at a phone.
When I finally close our chat, the only other contact lingers on the screen. I tap his name. Write the same sentence ten times. Delete it. Write it again. Until I finally settle a few words.
Me: It wasn’t your fault.
***
Kane never replies.
I don’t expect him to, not really. What exactly do you say to a vague message about your traumatic past?
Since then, I’ve spent every waking moment thinking over everything he’s told me. Replaying those horrific memories in my mind, painting them until I feel like I’m there too—a passenger who sat back and did nothing.
Then there’s the immortality.
How am I even supposed to comprehend it? Do I want to live forever? Could I even stop it, if I didn’t?
And the part about not having children… I don’t really know how I feel about that. Because when Alexis realised I didn’t have periods, I researched what it might mean, and I’d already assumed it wasn’t a possibility for me.
Again, I hardly sleep. I stare at the ceiling, at the silent phone, back to the ceiling, until the first light filters in.
Mentally, I’m a mess. Murky.
When I’m not reliving Kane’s past, I’m trying—again—to prepare questions.
After drying my hair, I even type some notes into my phone, determined not to get sidetracked today. No. There are things I want to know. Need to hear.
If Kane’s behaviour yesterday is going to continue, if he really is ready to share the truth—I want all of it.
I glance down at my notes:
Contacting my family? My mark? Green Cloaks/The Order? Girl in cell? Prospero? Immortal timeline?
What a list.
My fingers hover over the wordfamily. Maybe I couldn’t trust them, and maybe they had lied to me. But you couldn’t just switch off emotions. I still care about them, miss them, think about them when my mind isn’t screaming at me to sleep or eat or go to… them.
And then there are the other things I want to know, the ones I haven’t put into writing. The more self-absorbed thoughts.
Kane’s reasons for being so cold and cruel when we first met, and—even more importantly—why that’s changed.
It seems Kacey was also prepared today.
Her regular overalls look tidier, more fitted. Her hair is still in her high ponytail, but with the addition of some curls. Her lashes appear darker, cheeks rosier. She also feels... better.
The nervousness is more stable, less staticky, and when Amon arrives that afternoon, with a large grin and gleaming eyes, Kacey doesn’t even glance my way.
