“You don’t need to apologize. We appreciate the help. Takeout was getting repetitive.”
Noam drummed his fingers against the top dresser drawer and said nothing. He was biting his lip again.
Dara didn’t like the feeling that was curling up in his chest. It itched, just out of reach.
At last Dara drew up the nerve: “Did something happen?”
“No. Not really.” Noam’s gaze skittered away from Dara’s to stare at a spot on Dara’s bed like it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, well, you don’t have to.”
God. What was Dara supposed to say to that? The thing in his chest twisted tighter, and he gripped the edge of the mattress, sheets mussing under his palms.
How had they ended up here?
It was several seconds before Dara was able to speak again. “I don’t ... I don’t want you to think that just because I—because I don’t want you there ... with him ... that you can’t talk to me at all.”
Noam’s gaze darted back to meet his. When he took in a breath, his shoulders trembled, visible even from across the room.
“It’s not anything he did,” Noam said slowly. “It’s ... I’m ... starting to worry. A little.”
And you weren’t worried before?Dara bit back those words right in time. “Worry about what?”
“I’m worried he knows,” Noam whispered. And he looked so young just then, no longer the cold killer Dara had met in the meetings, an assassin in tailored suits. He was just a seventeen-year-old kid caught deep in something he no longer knew how to escape.
Dara pushed himself up off the bed and paced closer—not close enough to touch, but near enough he heard the wood creak when Noam braced himself harder against the dresser.
“Did he say something?” Dara asked. He tried to keep his words quiet, nonconfrontational.
“He said he didn’t know if he could trust me. And he—he’s angry. Because I won’t ...”
Noam didn’t have to finish that sentence, and Dara didn’t want him to. Cold fingers knit around his heart. It hurt.
“You have to get out of there,” Dara said in a low tone. “It’s been six weeks—you’re out of time, Noam. He’ll hurt you.”
Noam was breathing fast and shallow, his pupils dilated like they couldn’t take in enough light. Dara slipped his hand around Noam’s wrist, fingertips pressing in against his pulse. It, too, beat quick and erratic.
“I should have left with you,” Noam confessed, softly enough it was barely audible at all. Dara tipped in closer to catch the last words. Noam twisted his arm under Dara’s grasp to catch Dara’s hand with his own, tangling their fingers together and squeezing hard. “I’m sorry. I should never have—I let you go out there alone. I’m sorry. I’d give anything to go back and ...”
“Leave?”
Noam swallowed, nodded.
“You still have that choice,” Dara said. “You can leave him. Right now. You don’t have to go back.”
Already the words felt dead in his mouth. Dara had said that before, and Noam always gave the same answer.
Noam stared at him, his throat convulsing, clearly trying to figure out how to tell Dara no—how to tell him, for the hundredth time, that staying with Lehrer was more important to him than Dara was.
“Don’t say it. Don’t even ... don’t bother.”
Dara tried to extricate his hand from Noam’s, but Noam gripped tighter, keeping him in place. “It’s not that,” Noam said. “It’s—I was going to say ... you’re right.”
Dara’s gaze flicked up. Noam wet his lips.
“It’s ... what you said, in the bar the other night. About how I can’t let things go. You’re right. And maybe—I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve been so—my whole life, people do things to, they ... theyhurtthe people I love. And there was never anything I could do about it. Not until I got magic.” Noam’s hand slackened against Dara’s, but Dara didn’t try to pull away again. He rubbed his thumb against the backs of Noam’s knuckles, and Noam said: “I can do something, now. And maybe I ... maybe I’m afraid of being powerless again.”
