“You and she are very similar in some regards—both fueled by anger.”
“Donotcompare us. I am not volatile like that monster.”
“You’re definitely no sweet, innocent flower now, are you?”
I changed the subject away from me, because the thought of being compared to a Veiler—especially one as cruel as she—brought out the exact rage he was describing.
“What couldshehave to be angry about?”
I glanced over at her on her silver horse. She didn’t have a companion riding with her. She probably would never deign to be saddled with one of the culled.
“It’s not as if she had to spend her entire life wondering if her village was going to be culled,” I continued. “Or if tomorrow were the day she, her friend—her brother—or someone else she cared about was going to be taken away forever.”
There was a tense moment of silence.
“Her story is not mine to share. But maybe she has just as much to resent as you. Many of us do.”
Rowan’s voice sounded honest and protective. Maybe it wasn’t purely platonic between them. It was not my concern either way, so I dropped the thought.
“And you?” I asked.
“I have made peace with my past,” he said bluntly, making sure I understood that the topic of his past wasn’t a road he wanted to venture down.
“Is that a long past then?” I asked not so subtly.
“If you are trying to ask my age, Mavis, I have seen twenty-five summers.”
“Oh.”
“Does that surpriseyou?”
“I mean, I knew you were young, but I didn’t know you werethatyoung. Should you be a commanding officer when there are others older and more experienced than you?”
“Would you rather Balor be in command?”
“Gods, no!” I choked out, and he chuckled again. If Balor had been the commanding officer, then I would never have left Oak Hollow alive. “I’m just curious how a Veiler rises in the ranks at such an early age. You must be very skilled at killing.”
“Something like that,” he murmured.
“How did you get the scar on your lip?”
Rowan’s body immediately stiffened. I almost felt bad for asking—perhaps it was too much—but I shut that thought down at once. I did not pity Veilers.
“A shaving accident,” Rowan said flatly.
“Ashavingaccident?”
That was a lie. It had to be. Though the scar had paled and thinned over time, it was far too prominent to have been an accident.
“You’ve asked enough,” he stated. “It’s my turn. Do you know how to fight?”
“Are you asking because most women aren’t taught how?”
“I know many women who can fight, and fight well. But you don’t come from an area that typically condones such teachings.”
“I love my home,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I never said you shouldn’t.”
