The silk of his hair tangled in my fingers again.
It’s all so fucking familiar.
My eyes snap open. He watches me warily, his chin tilting as my fist tightens in his hair to hold him exactly where I need him. I tug harder, and his lips part on a soft, involuntary gasp that shoots straight through me.
I should let go.
Instead, I drag the moment out, savoring the contact like poison I know will kill me.
“It’s not my name,” I finally say, voice raw, “because you’re the one who gave it to me.”
His face collapses into a masterpiece of ruin.
I release him and force a step back, the distance feeling like tearing flesh. “That’s not who I am anymore.”
“Bash—” he starts, voice breaking.
The sound of it guts me. My stomach plummets, pain echoing his so perfectly that I want to fold in half just to make it stop.
None of this should still belong to me.
Not the hurting, not the longing, not the love I buried under four years of grief and rage.
Noneof it.
“No,” I interrupt. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t get to show up here after all these years and break me all over again. It isn’t fair. That’s not fuckingfair, Xeni!”
“Please,” he whispers, his insistence turning to pleading. “Please just listen.”
My throat swells as I close my eyes and force my logical brain to take over. If I give the reins to my heart, it’ll cave, because despiteeverythinghe did, it still yearns for its other half.
I take a half step back, then fight my impulses and do it again. When I speak, my voice shakes with pain I’ve held onto for years.
“It’s your turn to listen. You’re going to answer my questions. Got it?”
His lip tightens and quivers slightly. He looks ready to argue, but he nods instead, small and defeated.
“Why are you in the city?” I demand.
His throat works in a swallow, then he wets his lips as he glances at Cato, then back to me.
“Can we talk in private?” he asks.
The fear of being alone with him has only been amplified after being so close. His scent still burns in my nostrils, and I can’t be trusted.
I force my head to shake. “Anything you need to say can be said in front of him.”
Unmistakable jealousy flares across his face. It stirs a bitter satisfaction inside me, but it’s hollow, more ache than triumph.
He stays quiet for a long moment, the fight draining out of him until his shoulders sag and he stares at his lap.
“I guess you’ve heard about Ljómur,” he says.
I close my eyes, reliving the day the report came. Seeing the pictures of the destruction and reading the casualty list… staring at his name listed in bold, the word ‘deceased’ so casually scrawled beside it.
Theemptiness, despite knowing it wasn’t true.
“Yeah,” I rasp, opening my eyes to find him watching me too carefully. “I heard. How’d you weasel your way out?”
