He’s close enough that I can see the newly acquired green and honey specks in his eyes, making it hard to breathe. “That was really fucking vivid.”
“She hurt you.”
Dammit. What part of vengeful intestine stuffing makes me swoon?
“What does the note say?” I ask in a low voice, trying my luck for another answer.
His hand finds his pocket. And the note. “It’s not for you.”
Liar.“Tell me.”
One black boot flattens glass and carpet strings. Then another. The room creaks, or maybe it’s my mind attempting to justify my body’s reaction.
His tall frame looms over me, a bandage still fastened to his neck. A day’s worth of stubble camouflages some of the bruises. “Does it matter where she is?”
“She tried to take my memories and force me into a fake life with her and my father. So yeah, it matters.”
“She’s in the room next door.”
“What?!” I grab the pair of black pants, then hop around, pulling them up. “Where are my other pants?”
“Gone.”
Panic swarms my body. “Her necklace was in the pocket! Where are the pants?”
He slides a hand into his pocket and pulls out my mother’s yellow stone on a chain. A huge breath breaks free. I put out my hand, and the second its odd warmth hits my palm, I race barefoot to the door. But it’s locked. I turn around.
“Let me out.” I don’t know how many times I’ve said those words to him, how many times I’ve been denied.
A soft breeze whispers against my cheeks, ripe with the scent of morning rain—his light side. His eyes flash green, then gold, and he lets the slightest bit of dread pull his brows together before he wipes his face clear of emotion and unlocks the door.
My shoulders drop in relief. I’m not a prisoner. But I know, on a layer deeper than skin, that I still belong to this man in ways I can’t put words to.
He follows me into the hallway and points toward the last door.
I step inside.
Chapter 4
EVER
There she sits, my mother, graceful despite having her ankles chained to metal rods driven into the carpet, her crimson dress torn and crusted with blood. Long black locks spill onto the floor around her, lacking their usual luster. Her cheeks sag. Her jaw hangs loose. But those black eyes of hers—they’re wide awake, gems of destruction, and I’m her target.
I’m rigid. Speechless. Maybe because half my body wants to dive at her and pull out fistfuls of her hair until she begs me to stop, then kneel on her throat and watch the blood vessels in the whites of her eyes explode as she fights for air she’ll never have. And the other half wants to cry, to crawl into her lap and mourn the loss of a mother I never truly had and never will, to gather pieces of my past and use them to build new walls around myself.
I do neither.
I stand still, the death in her eyes matching the death in my heart, and I fight the thoughts intruding on my indecision, tipping me off center. I want to slither into the darkness and give way to the violence, the lure of revenge. I want to share the suffering—not as some attempt at mutual understanding—no, I want her to hurt like her skin is falling off.
And it terrifies me. I’m not like that. I don’t want another death on my hands. Another Cam to haunt me. Killing her was enough.
I dampen the violent desire with a grounding look around the room. Light green walls cast a false sense of tranquility over the space. A bed stands on its side, pushed against the far wall, and a sheet coversthe floor-to-ceiling window. Only a bucket and a canteen remain within reach of the Centress.
She tilts her pale face up at me, finding a regal angle despite how pathetic she looks. Her lips twitch as if a cruel smile were about to appear, but the effort was too great to follow through with it. “My daughter.”
No. She doesn’t get to call me that. She doesn’t get to pretend she cares. She’s no more than shared blood to me. I only want one thing. No bullshit. I move closer. “How do I find my father?”
A cackle slices through the room. “Oh love, only he can find you.”
