Why?
Why take the books but leave Eamon behind? Why stand next toVaressia in that lab and watch him die, only to hand me my inheritance an hour later?
He accepted my anger, simply telling me to burn them all down before walking back to them. He went back to Highspire. To Varessia. To the people who killed Eamon.
He was alone, surrounded by the monsters he had warned me against.
I gripped the letter, crumpling the edge.
I had so many questions. I held a lifetime of secrets in my lap, and the only person who knew the truth was walking straight into a trap. I still didn't know whose side he was really on.
But I knew one thing. I wasn’t going to let him die before he answered me.
My phone buzzed against the hard wood of the coffee table—a harsh, mechanical intrusion in the quiet flat.
I looked at the screen. A message notification cut through the gloom.
Dane:Checked myself out. Against medical advice.
Another buzz. Dane:Meet me at my flat 0700. We do this right.
I stared at the glowing text, the breath catching in my chest.
Dane was out. Less than three weeks after his spine was snapped in half, he had forced his way out of the hospital to keep me from tearing myself apart.
The reckless impulse to go after Highspire burned away. I didn't require a bodyguard; I required an equal. Someone with the mind to help me dissect the trap Riven had walked into and pull him out alive.
We could figure this out. Together.
I looked back at the green leather journal on the table. The ink was dry, but the secrets were still fresh.
I would wait for dawn. And then, I was coming for him.
TWENTY-SIX
Selene
Dane’s flat smelled of lemon bleach and damp wool.
It was a sparse, ground-floor box in a quiet part of Midtown. No photos. No clutter. Just the essentials of a man who spent his life working or hunting.
I stood in the middle of the living room, the strap of my kit bag digging into my shoulder. I lowered it to the floorboards, the weight of the journal, books and the lockbox inside settling with a heavy impact. The clock on the wall read 7:05.
Dane was in the kitchenette. He moved stiffly, his back rigid, turning carefully from the waist rather than twisting his spine. But today, instead of pouring whisky, he was making tea.
The domestic normalcy of it caught in my throat.
He set two mugs on the low table and sat down on the sofa with a wince he tried to hide.
“Sit,” he said. His amber eyes scanned me—checking for injuries, checking for the source of the tremor in my hands.
I sat, leaving the tea untouched.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
“I’m upright,” he said, shifting to find a position that didn’t pull at his healing spine. “And I had a feeling you might need help, after what happened recently.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The concern in his eyes hardened into professional focus.
