His brows furrow, and a shadow passes over his eyes. “I cannot promise I won’t hurt you, Isola.” The words drive a chill down my spine. “Because I know I already have. I know the person I am, and it’s someone who will inevitably hurt you again.” His eyes never leave mine. “But I can make you another vow, instead: I will never tire of trying to be worthy of your forgiveness. Even if it takes a hundred years. Even if you ask for me to be your weapon and reduce cities to ash and ruin in your name. Even if it kills me. Were you to ask for my destruction, I would hand you a blade and beg for Mercy.”
I am breathless. Staggered. Trapped by his eyes and words and the heat that perpetually radiates off him and holds me ensnared.
We both stand at the precipice of the point of no return.Who’s going to break first?Is the question that hovers in the air.Who will give in? Who’s weaker? Or perhaps that’s not it; perhaps it’s who’s stronger? Braver?
He leans forward. I don’t move away. My lids become heavy ashis hand slides up my jaw, cupping my cheek. The pads of his fingers draw me in closer.
Everything within me wars. Where we are. Who we are. His warnings. How much I still feel like I don’t know about him. The fact that all of this is likely nothing more than desperation—wanting to be touched, for once in my life. To be made flesh and blood after years of veneration from afar by the masses. Desperation to feel something among so much death and fear.
Even if I can logic through every desire enough that I could pull away from him, I find that I don’t care.I want him. I wantthis.
I want to feel his mouth on mine. To have him pull me to him as roughly or as gently as he likes. For so much of my life, I’ve had to play the part of someone who’s strong and in control. Just this once, I want to know what it would feel like to surrender.
“Isola.” My name is nothing more than a breath. My own hitches, as he’s close enough for me to feel his warmth on my cheeks.
My eyes are nearly closed. “Say it again.”
“Isola.”His grip tenses, as if he, too, can’t decide if he wants to be tender or tear me apart.
Without warning…Lucan releases me. I sway on my feet.
He turns away, not even looking at me. I’m left standing in the faded sunlight with limp, heavy arms. The constriction around my chest vanishes, and my breaths come too quickly, making words difficult.
“What—”
“I can’t,” he interrupts. “Not with you.”
“Not withme?” His words hit like a volley of blows, my body aching as if the vicar has tried to coax Ether from me again. My voice comes out hoarse and thin. “What does that mean?”
His back is to me, so I can’t even see his face, but his shoulders are stiff and his fists balled at his sides. “I can’t,” he repeats, as if that’s somehow an answer. As if it’s the only explanation Ishould need. “Good night, Isola.”
Before I can get in another word, he strides to a side room, giving me the workshop, closing the door behind him. I imagine that if it had a lock, I would hear it engage.
And I’m left just standing here…
Not withme. Meaning he’d want it with anyone else,fromanyone else. How untouchable, undesirable must I be to not even be worth kissing when at any second either of us could die?
I flex my fingers and relax them, then rub the violently aching scar in the center of my chest. I pace to his door, nearly throwing it open, nearly demanding he just kiss me once to be done with it.
I was ready to give you my first kiss!I nearly scream.
Instead, I storm away, disgusted by my desperation for a man who’s made his feelings clear.
Back at the window, I stare out at the fading light but can find no comfort in it. Nothing is going to calm me. Not here, not now.
Unable to take the atmosphere of the room for a moment longer, I cross to the door. With a deep breath and a wave of forced conviction, I push the open door to submit myself to the nighttime hallways of the monastery—because nothing out there can hurt me half as much as what happened right here.
51
The monastery feels different tonight. Or maybeI’mthe one who’s different.
I don’t walk. Istalk. I move fearlessly through the darkened passageways and rooms, almost inviting the inquisitors or anyone else to challenge me, and wishing someone would. Just to give me an outlet for all this frustration. And yet no one bites.
Somehow, this makes me even more agitated.
I stop in the middle of the library and barely suppress a groan of frustration. I know there are other supplicants who’ve taken residence in the study halls on the second floor. I’m sure there are people watching me right now, yet none of them engage.
An inquisitor observes me from the archway that leads to the central atrium, but he doesn’t move. I’m sure this is the start of some new game that will play out over the coming days before the final challenge.
