“Of course I know that!” When Jo startled at the outburst, he shook his head, pressing his eyes shut. “It was never supposed to be like this.”
“What wasn’t?”
Snow shook his head again.
A little inkling wormed its way up from an ugly corner of her brain. It wasn’t entirely foreign, yet it also wasn’t familiar. Jo became keenly aware of how much he was hurting—how weak that hurt made him.
Like she’d attempted with Eslar, she could nudge the conversation.
No, she could do better. He trusted her, so she could attack under his armor. It wouldn’t take much, of that she was certain. Just a few pushes in the right places and she could crack him like an egg—letting his truths ooze out one by one.
“No more secrets, Snow.” Jo attempted to straddle the line between demanding and gentle. “I need you to be honest with me.”
“I’ve always been honest with you.”
Honest, maybe, but upfront, no. Jo kept the bitter thought to herself. “The wishes, Snow.”
“What about them?”There. It was barely audible, but there was a waver to Snow’s voice that hadn’t been there with anything else he’d said. She tightened her grip on his hands; she was on the right trail.
“Eslar mentioned once that you don’t get to choose them.”
Whether he knew he was doing it or not, Snow’s grip tightened beneath hers as well. It felt almost like he was clinging. “If I did, do you think I would have ever let Nico die? Do you think I would have given us another task like this, so soon?”
“No . . . But . . . How are the wishes chosen, then?” Snow stiffened beneath her hands and Jo felt him beginning to pull away; she tightened her fingers, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Snow, please.”
For a long time, Snow just stared down at her, expressions flitting behind his eyes like the flicker of a candle flame, constantly shifting before they had the chance to take form. When it settled, Jo tried not to feel guilty at the defeat that remained.
“What does it matter?”
“Help me understand,” Jo whispered. “You don’t have to do this alone. If you tell me about the workings of the Society, the way all of this exists . . . I may be able to help you.”
“Help me how?”
“I may be able to destroy it.”
Snow blinked, as if she had gone out of focus and was suddenly coming back into clarity. “Jo . . . what did you just say?”
“I want to end this, Snow. I want to free us all from the Society. No more wishes, no more nooses around our necks. You, me, everyone.”
Here, Snow finally chose to cover the rest of the short distance between them. He reached forward, cupping one of her cheeks. Jo leaned into the touch easily, like she’d done it a million times. Her eyes fluttered closed, but only for a moment, a desperate part of her refusing to lose sight of him, lest he vanish, a figment of her paranoid imagination all along. Another bit of her fracturing reality to question.
But he didn’t disappear; his piercing eyes still scanned her face, silver hair still fell in a motionless cascade despite the breeze Jo knew was blowing. Jo wondered if her hair was motionless as well. It must be, because he said nothing.
“That’s not possible.”
“You’re lying to me.” She’d never known anything with more certainty in her life, and Snow’s immediate reaction told her everything—the way his gaze seemed unable to stay pinned to her face was proof enough. But even if it wasn’t, there was that same feeling she was becoming more and more familiar with. The feeling of seeing weakness in something,someone, and recognizing just where to push. “Why are you lying to me?”
“Because, I . . .” Snow took a breath, let it out. He shook his head, then fell silent.
Jo took a deep breath of her own through her nose, then let it out through her mouth in an attempt to keep her temper under control. For the briefest of moments, she considered pushing him away. Instead, she pulled him closer. She pressed their bodies together so tightly that it was nearly impossible to tell where one of them began and the other ended.
Jo sighed softly, feeling momentarily high on the rich scent of cloves that seemed to have permanently soaked into the man’s flesh. There were deeper notes, like the spongy moss of a forest, combined with lighter ones, like the fresh crest of seafoam on a wave. Merely smelling him, touching him, evoked so many thoughts and feelings that it was overwhelming.
“Are you afraid to tell me?” she asked delicately.
“I am.” Sturdy, assured, his voice didn’t falter this time; there were no cracks to push on—he was telling the truth.
“Why?”
