He wants me to say yes. Needs me to tell him I ended our enemies.
My heart sinks at the terrible hope in his eyes, but I can’t lie to him. “I had to choose between killing them or seizing the Oracle. I chose her.”
Victor’s hand claws my shoulder. How badly he wants Maxim dead. Nothing short of the annihilation of all Ember Fae will bring my brother peace.
The only time I was ever grateful for my father’s sadistic cruelty was the night he caught the man who burned Victor. That fae’s screams pealed out for hours, but nothing will ever drown out the memory of my brother’s cries, my mother’s wails, or my own sorrow that Victor bore the flames instead of me.
His green eyes are stony. “You chose the Oracle.”
I remain silent, letting him expel his fury.
“You should have fucking killed them, brother. You should have torn them apart.”
He takes a breath, and I reach up, my hand landing on his.
“Soon enough.” I give him a determined smile. “You know as well as I do that the Oracle is the key to our future.”
Only to claim her did I leave my enemies alive. For now, this will hurt them far more than death could.
Victor breaks my gaze to consider Thyra, and I wonder if he’ll feel differently toward her now.
She appears to have the same question, lifting herself off the wall and squaring her shoulders, facing him without flinching.
A soft exhalation passes Victor’s lips. “Thyra is the key. She’s more important than revenge.”
The tension finally leaves his hand, and he releases my shoulder, his focus returning to his work. Thyra sinks back to the wall, but she’s even quieter than she was before.
I tear my focus from her when, with a few swift twists, Victor removes the first piece of my armor. A second piece follows soon after. He places both on the workbenchbefore making an unhappy sound. “Now I understand why you’re not in pain.”
He taps my back—or at least, I catch the movement from the corner of my eye, but I don’t feel it.
“Your skin is burned in this spot. You wouldn’t feel a thing.” He doesn’t dwell on it. “I need Thyra’s help with this part.”
“Fine.” I incline my head at her. “Thyra.”
She lifts herself once more off the wall, approaching without any hesitation, but the closer she comes, the more visible her fatigue becomes.
She’s moving slowly, and the pinch of tension between her eyes remains even as she appears focused on Victor’s instructions.
His head is bowed. “I need you to put pressure on either side of the projectile while I extract it. You’ll have to press hard, do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Even when she’s standing close to my back, and I’m certain she’s pressing against me, I can’t feel her hands on that part of my back. Not until the pressure she exerts pushes at me hard enough that I move forward an inch.
I fight to suppress my shudder. Not because of her touch. Far from it. I’d give anything to feel it right now.
My brother thinks Maxim’s Ember fire did this to me. Of course, he would. And of course, that’s the story I’ll tell.
But I know better.
My right fist suddenly clenches in my lap.
I need to thump my chest. I need the pain. I need to feel it.
Instead, I wrap my fingers around the edge of the workbench in front of me, both hands gripping so tightly that my metallic gloves threaten to crack the wood.
“Push harder,” Victor says, and Thyra’s weight against me increases.
