I'm almost to the door when his voice stops me.
"Oh, and Henri?"
"Monsieur?"
"If you ever find yourself feeling too restrained"—he draws the word out, savoring it— "do let me know. I'd hate for you to be uncomfortable in your position."
I meet his eyes. "Understood."
"I thought you might."
I walk out before I show him exactly how unrestrained I can be.
When I kill him—and I will kill him—it won't be fast.
I'll take my time. Start with the hands that signed her over to this life. The mouth that calls her wife like he owns the word. The eyes that watched her bleed and saw nothing but entertainment.
I'll make him understand what he did.
Make him feel every second of it.
And then, when he's begging, when he's crying and broken and desperate for it to stop, I'll lean in close and whisper her name.
So it's the last thing he ever hears.
TWENTY-TWO
TRISTAN
Around midnight, the house finally goes quiet. Guards are on skeleton shift, the security room is half-asleep, and the cameras are running through their normal patterns.
I slip out through the window, drop onto the stone path, and walk toward the cliffs with my hands in my pockets and my head down. The ocean throws itself violently against the rocks below, trying to tear the land apart one wave at a time.
I know the feeling.
The moon is bright enough to see by, silvering the grass and the edges of the cliffs and the small purple flowers growing where nothing else can.
Sea asters.
My grandmother always said they were survivors. Thriving where nothing else could.
Her fucking voice is in my head. We were at that old cabin in Ireland. I remember the way she smiled softly when she saw the fistful of stems I'd picked from the cliffs.
They reminded me of you.
I crouch, snapping the stems free, grabbing a handful of purple blooms that have no business being this beautiful in a place this unwelcome.
They're not enough.
Nothing I could give her would be enough. Not after what I witnessed. Not after I stood there and let it happen.
But it's something.
Proof that soft things can survive in impossible places.
A reminder that she's not as alone as she thinks.
When I'm far enough from the house, I pull out the burner.
