There are a few grunts, then Ciprian squeezes in between my legs, resting his head in my lap. “Wake me when you’re tired.”
My fingers find their way into his hair. Stroking the silky strands is nearly as soothing for me as it is for him. He’s asleep in about sixty seconds.
The others drift off one at a time. Luca by my side, Alistair on the other, and Malach on the edge nearest the door. Tears of relief burn my eyes as I listen to their breathing even out. I’ve never heard a sound I like more.
The house remains quiet—quieter than most buildings I’ve been in. There are no creaks or groans of stretching floorboards. No air conditioning or heating units turning on or off. I hear nothing, except the occasional gust of wind, muffled by the mountain.
In the cool darkness, the chaos fades. It allows me to think. Really think. Logically—without the added noise of outside opinions and rogue emotions. And there’s only one question I want to answer: why the fuck is Riven helping me?
He was prepared to let monsters rip me apart in the arena. Gods, he sent me to my death with no expression on his face, then turned around and what? Changed his mind? It makes no sense. And now he’s risking everything to hide us.
It can’t be his conscience. Riven isn’t a good guy, and pretending otherwise isn’t just stupid, it’s dangerous. His footprints drip blood. He kills for a living and runs a monster prison where fighting to the death is mandatory.
A chill runs through me, and I tuck my toes under Luca’s leg.
Riven is cold—more shell and bone than flesh andblood—so why was he so warm when he put his body between me and that monster? And why did I feel safe?
Frustrated with my lack of progress, I put the Riven dilemma in a box and shut the lid. Next to it, growing into the side of my brain, is a living, seething vault.
It’s different from the rest of my mind, which I try to keep clean and organized—memories, thoughts, dreams, and ideas sorted neatly by usefulness.
My vault is dark and dusty and covered in cobwebs. It’s a sinister, dented structure with red, pulsing veins that throb and glow. The door is impregnable, unfeeling steel—thick enough to keep anything out. Or in.
I rarely acknowledge the vault.
Knowing it’s there at all gives it power.
Because I’m not the only one with the combination. And sometimes, when I least expect it, the vault opens on its own and forces me to peek inside.
Some memories are better locked away.
Once S’lach is dead, I’ll open the door, pull out the painful memories, set them on fire, and dance on the ashes. Then the not-so-bad ones—Mom’s laughing face and gentle hands—will breathe again. Without the stain of his presence, I’ll be able to take them out and hang them on the walls of my mind like the art in my apartment.
I won’t need the vault anymore, but for now, it’s the best I can do.
Ciprian links his fingers with mine and brings my hand to his lips. It’s only then that I realize his breathing isn’t deep or even anymore.
“Did I wake you?” I whisper, forcefully turning away from the vault. I have everything I need right in front of me. I need to leave the past where it belongs.
“Not you,” he says. “Your fear.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Ciprian sits up and wraps his arms around me. “You never have to be sorry. Not with me.”
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I nod. I can do this. I can let him hold me. I can lean on his strength without it making me weak. And when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll be stronger because of it.
I wake to the rumble of angry voices.
“You’ve got to leave without me. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“If you say that again, I’m going to smother you with a pillow.”
“Casanell’s right. You’re wasting time and energy every time you bring it up.”
“Think of Celine, you’ve got to get her out of here.”
“Celine can hear you,” I groan and crack my eyes open. They’re gritty, my skin is tight, and if I hear Luca’s self-sacrificing bullshit one more time, I’m going to lose my temper.
