“What about what Paris did to your mom? Was that an accident, too?”
The air in the room seems to fold in on him. He regards his lieutenant coldly, his lungs constricting.
“Careful.”
Cyrus doesn’t heed the warning. “All I’m saying is, he’s forced you to fall in line before.”
“And I’ve taken the necessary precautions to make sure he never does it again. We’re done with this conversation. Untie me.”
This time, Cyrus obliges. Loosening the first strap, he stands aside and lets Lysander do the rest himself. Every muscle in his body aches, and it slows his progress considerably. He’s annoyed all over again by the time he finally steps free.
“It’s not just you anymore,” says Cyrus, the moment he’s loose. “You owe it to the rest of them to get your head on straight.”
“My head is fine.” Lysander locates his T-shirt and tugs it on, snatching up Viola’s embroidery as he does. The cross-stitch is aimless. Disordered. Just an errant cluster of red snarls on white linen. Reaching for his hoodie, he tosses the hoop on a shelf with the others. A half dozen linens stitched in similar, frenzied fashion. Nonsense, all of it.
Do you want to keep her?
And what if he did? What if he tried? It would ruin him, that’s what. Here, on his shelf, sits the raw and bloody proof. His best intentions, rotting in a jar.
He zips his hoodie and reaches for his jacket, shrugging it on as he heads out into the hall. Cyrus follows.
“Speaking of your head, you might want to take a look in the mirror.”
Lysander doesn’t slow his pace. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Ah.” Cyrus sucks air through his teeth. “I don’t want to say.”
“Five minutes ago, I couldn’t get you to shut up. What’s changed?”
“What’schanged,” says Cyrus as they turn a corner, “is that now you and your shitty attitude are within striking distance.”
Lysander skids to a stop. “Say it, Cy.”
“You have horns.” It echoes horribly.
“Horns,” Lysander repeats.
“Very small ones,” Cyrus amends, as if it’s any better.
Cautious, Lysander probes at his temples. What he’d thought was the worst headache of his life is, in fact, a coarse bit of bone, piercing his flesh on either side. The skin is tender around the base, gored open and fevered to the touch. He drops his hands. His stomach roils.
“I’ll shave them down.”
Cyrus lifts a brow. “And what about the next time?”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Sure,” says Cyrus. “Unless my theory is correct, which would mean Paris convinced Conall Sullivan to go after Parker. And if he got to Sully, he’ll get to someone else. You showed your hand last night. It’s only a matter of time before it happens again.”
The ache in Lysander’s gut has become a Gordian knot. The only way to handle it is to slice it clean in half. It might not dull the hurt, but it would simplify it. He takes off down the hall, pulling his hood over his head.
“Get me Poppy Zahar. I’ll meet you in the boardroom in twenty minutes.”
“Where areyougoing?” calls Cyrus after him.
“To make sure what happened last night doesn’t happen again.”
•••
