Mercy climbs up, her back curved in fear.
His attention shifts to me the moment she disappears.
“You know, Haven,” he says, voice dropping, “this marriage doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”
His fingers slide along the inside of my wrist, slow and deliberate, tracing my pulse. My breath catches despite myself. I hate that he can feel how fast it’s racing. I hate that he is using his touch to manipulate me.
Shivers slither down my spine. I lift my chin, meeting his dark, hungry gaze.
“It could be,” he continues, stepping closer, “different.”
“How?” I ask shakily.
His fingers slide down and tangle around my hand, gripping me with a possessiveness that frightens me.
“Let go of me,” I breathe.
He ignores me. Instead, he lifts my hand slightly, studying our hold. My hand is small in his, fingers slim and delicate. My oval nails are clear. I removed my black polish because Mercy prefers light shades.
“Trust,” he begins.
His misty-blue eyes lock on mine.
“Without trust, we have no foundation,” Ender continues. “Is there something you wish to confess?”
“No.”
His mouth curves. Cold and mocking.
“How long will Mercy survive in training?” he asks lightly, tilting his head. “An hour? A day? A week?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say hoarsely. “You’re acting insane. Maybe we should get you a doctor. Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll go look for one?”
I try to pry my fingers free, but it only makes his grip tighten.
Ender leans in, his mouth close to my ear, his voice low enough that it makes me quiver.
“I will enjoy breaking her while you remain here,” he murmurs, “waiting for me to return. My perfect, little wife.”
A small gasp escapes me. I know Ender enough to know that he means every word.
“Fine,” I say between gritted teeth. “What do you want?”
He releases my hand immediately.
“Confess.”
“Confess what?”
Ender blinks, infuriatingly calm, offering neither confirmation nor denial about what he knows. Something inside me snaps, and I throw up my hands.
“You caught us,” I say bitterly. “We swapped places.”
He claps. Twice. The rhythm is slow and unhurried.
“Was that so hard?”
“When did you find out?” I ask.
