I know when he’s not there as the clock tolls midnight that he isn’t coming.
I finally clear snow off the bench at the base of the bell tower when it tolls the quarter hour and drop down onto it. I allow myself only the fifteen minutes between the tolling of the bells to cry for Cassian Leclerc, for my own foolish fantasies, and for the future I’d only just started daring to dream of again.
At half past twelve, Marcus steps out of the shadows and sits down beside me.
“I’m all right,” I lie.
I’m not and my honor guard knows it, but the longer he sits beside me beneath the bell tower, the angrier I get. Cassian could have showed up. If he were an alpha with any honor, he would have. Shit, he could have at least texted me. But he didn’t.
“Fuck him,” I finally mutter. “He’s an asshole and I’m a fool for thinking… for thinking…”
“Hang on to the anger. He’s not worth your tears, sweet-tart.”
“I just want tohitsomething,” I mutter.
Which is exactly how I end up standing in front of a punching bag in a pair of sweats borrowed from the gymnasium’s lost and found.
Marcus demonstrates how to properly throw a punch and I mimic the motions.
“Wrist straight and close your fist,” he says, coming over and taking my hand in his, straightening my wrist. “Follow through with your punch.”
I give the bag an experimental jab and then shake my hand out. “Ow.”
“Keep your fist closed,” my honor guard instructs, and I do. I pummel the punching bag until my knuckles sting, until I’m breathing hard and my hair frizzes around my temples.
I strike, harder with each swing of my first, until all that pain becomes anger, until I work every last bit of the anger from my body.
And when I tell Marcus I want to come back and do this again, he gives me one of his rare smiles, his cheek dimpling.
“Any night or early morning you want, sweet-tart. Best if we come when no other alphas are around.”
“I know I still can’t punch for shit, and I’ll never be able to do any actual harm, but it does make me feel better. Stronger.”
“You want to feel stronger?” he asks. “Beyond the spellwork you’ve been practicing?”
“I need to be,” I say quietly.
“Then we start training. You’re small and you’ll always be smaller and weaker than your attackers. But you’re smart and quick. I’ll get you throwing alphas on their backs by summer break.”
I don’t believe him, but I laugh all the same.
“Thanks, Marcus,” I tell him. “For always being there for me.”
CHAPTER25
Iget a package from Hawthorn later that week, just in time for the Night of the Fallen feast and masquerade and when I open the box, my jaw drops open.
A mask of glittering magic and rhinestones sparkles from the black velvet of the box’s interior. And I know this mask, the markings around the eyes that reveal who the mask is: Saint Rosamund, the Black Rose, scourge of alphakind during the Witch Trials.
The omega who built an army and led it to war. The omega who brought peace and progress to the colonies.
I put the mask on and the image of me in the mirror steals my breath. Because hiding behind the face of a long-dead saint, I feelbrave.
And it is a courageous choice, a bold declaration that I will fight before I’ll lie down to be trod upon.
I dive back into the biography of Saint Rosamund Hawthorn got me for Yule and immediately get to work designing the rest of my costume. If something happens and this is the only Fallen I get, I’m going to do it properly.
And I’m going toshine.
