“What if it’s her?” I whisper. “What if she’s the traitor?”
He snaps his attention back to me. Quietly on a breath, “It’s not.”
I take a hard step in his direction. “Butwhatif it is?”
He shakes his head and turns away from me. “It can’t be.”
I thunder toward him, shoving his arm so it’ll spin him toward me. “And why do you say that? Look at me if you’re going to lie to me.”
His head lowers between his shoulders, and slowly he turns to me. When he lifts those eyes to me, realization spears through me hard enough I lose a breath.
Shaking my head, I whisper, “There isn’t an assassin here, is there?” When he doesn’t answer, I press, “You brought me in for some false vision?Why!”
“I think you know why…” he whispers weakly.
My jaw drops open as I stare back at him, my mouth growing dry. The only words I can form are, “You’reunbelievable,” before turning away from him and stalking off to the other side of the room.
He follows after me. “Agnes’ vision of the castle drenched in blood wasn’t a lie, Marcella.”
I whip to face him. On a shaking breath I manage to say, “Are you in love with Lyra?”
Witnessing the wave of recognition wash over him sinks my heart like a ship into the sea. As I take a few small steps back to keep from losing myself to the darkening tides, I bump into the wall.
He doesn’t respond.
Inexplicable anger crests over me before I brush it away. “Good then. I can’t say I’m not happy for you, knowing she feels attached to you, too.” I make for the door on the other side of him. “But I would have rather you not brought me here and wasted my time.”
“Marcella,” Cyrus says in a pathetic breath, snatching my wrist. “No…it’s…it’s not like that. It’s…complicated.”
“You know what? I don’t care,” I mutter, then step closer to him to emphasize, “I. Don’t. Care. Cyrus.” I rip my arm out of his.
“Please…let me just—” His hand timidly brushes my bare shoulder.
I flinch at the feeling of his tender touch, locking me in place. “If you’re well aware of the rules—of not fighting—then surely you know why we aren’t allowed out of our rooms at night?”
He’s far too close now. His jaw is clenched, frown on his face in a pained expression.
I press louder, “Why do we have to travel in twos?”
But as I stare into those ethereal white eyes…he doesn’t have to answer.
Nobody does—not anymore.
Because the fangs I saw in the garden all those mornings ago. And the deep gouges in the desk I saw. They were real. The beast that Lyra’s been seeing…
“It’s you…isn’t it?” I whisper, searching his eyes. Part of me so starved for hope that it isn't. That I’ve got it wrong.
Desperatelyangry that I’ve got it wrong.
My hand slides down to my side, subconsciously waiting for me to command it to pull out my dagger. I can’t help but take a sidestep away from him. Anything to put space between us.
My fear registers in him as he bows his head, dropping his shoulders. Fingers spread wide in defeat. In surrender. “Marcella, I swear to you, I won’t hurt you. I’ve told you that since the beginning, remember?”
I inch away until there’s a loveseat between us. Unsheathing my dagger in one swift motion, I keep it low, hidden by the furniture. My eyes never leaving my target. Quietly, calmly, I say, “You know of my scar, don’t you?”
Swallowing, he nods.
Admitting it spikes a stab of pain through my skull, nearly crippling me to my knees. Flashes of ripped skin echo in my memory, of screaming. Of roaring.
