“No,” he says. “Not unnecessarily.”
Hatchet steps aside.
Valentine opens the door, pauses on the threshold, and looks back at me one last time.
“You were never meant to escape,” he repeats, softer now. Not as a verdict. As a fact. “You were meant to understand.”
Then his gaze shifts.
Not to the room. Not to the group.
To Nightshade.
A beat.
A nod that doesn’t belong here. Too calm. Too familiar.
“Thank you for waiting,” Valentine says mildly. “For letting me tell her.”
The words don’t register all at once.
They sound all wrong – out of order – like my brain refuses to assemble them properly.
Waiting.
Letting.
Nightshade doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t look surprised.
And that’s when it hits.
Not the revelation. Not Valentine’s voice. Not the implications spiralling outward.
Him.
The stillness I thought was restraint. The silence I read as loyalty. The way he’s been watching me – not lost, not blindsided, but…contained.
Managed.
My chest tightens. Something sharp twists under my ribs.
“You knew,” I accuse.
The words don’t shake. That’s worse.
Nightshade’s eyes flick to mine.
Just once.
And in that instant I see it – not guilt, not defiance, not even apology.
Calculation.
Valentine steps out.
