"She doesn't know me."
"She knows enough." His eyes hold mine. "She said you were good for me."
"And you listened to her?"
"No." His tongue runs over his teeth. "I told myself she was wrong. That I was reading too much into it. That it was just attraction."
"I killed my father tonight." I'm shaking harder now. Finally. Hours after the fact and my body is finally catching up. "I pulled the trigger and watched him die and then I lookedat my hands and saw this. And you suspected something was happening. And you didn't—"
"Yes." His thumbs keep moving over the lines. Back and forth. Each pass makes my skin feel too tight. "And I should feel worse about that than I do."
"What?"
He looks up at me, and his eyes have gone silver at the edges. That thing that happens when he's not holding himself together properly. It shouldn't make my pulse kick. It does anyway.
"I should feel worse," he repeats. "About the marks. About you not choosing. About all of it." His grip tightens to the edge of pain. "But you're mine now. Marked. Permanent. And part of me—" He laughs again, that broken sound. "Part of me is fuckingdelighted."
I should be horrified. Should pull away, demand space, tell him he's a monster.
But I'm looking at his face—at the silver bleeding through his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he's holding my wrists like he's afraid I'll disappear—and I don't feel horrified.
I feel seen.
I feel wanted.
I feel my heartbeat between my legs and I hate that I can't make it stop.
"You're fucked up," I say.
"Yes."
"That's not a compliment."
"I know." He chuckles. "But you love it. That makes you just as fucked up as I am."
I want to argue. Tell him he's wrong, that I'm not like him, that whatever this is doesn't make me—
But I shot my father in the face tonight and felt nothing but relief. And I'm sitting here wet for a man who just told me he'd drag me back if I ran.
"Yeah, well." I look away first, mumbling, "at least I'm self-aware about it..."
"What does this mean?" I ask. "The marks. What do they do?"
"They don't do anything. Not exactly." He's still tracing the patterns. "They're proof. Proof that the bond is real. That it can't be broken."
"And?"
He hesitates. The first real hesitation I've seen from him tonight.
"And you'll live as long as I do now. Immortal. Only a titan-forged weapon can kill you."
I can't make sense of that. The words go into my ears and refuse to arrange themselves into meaning.
"Forever."
"Yes."
"I'm going to live forever."
