“Shut up,” I snapped.
I turned my head towards the window. I couldn’t look at him. Seeing him meant remembering the ghost of his skin against mine. Itmeant seeing the partner who had saved my life, forced to exist alongside the accessory who had watched my father die.
“You’re under arrest, Ashborne. You don’t get to talk.”
He fell silent, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. He offered no resistance, and that hollow compliance scared me more than a struggle would have.
Varessia’s voice echoed in the quiet of the car, louder than the engine.
I hunted him because I thought he was the one who lit up the grid.
Eamon had died for me. He died for the daughter he was shielding, not the secret he kept. The surge I’d triggered in the Old Quarter—the night Dane and I were attacked—had been the beacon that brought the wolves to his door.
Dane took a hard left, heading into the Old Quarter. The streets narrowed. The shadows lengthened.
He parked outside my building. The engine idled, a low, steady rumble.
Dane turned in his seat. He looked at Riven, then at me.
“I’ll stay here,” Dane said. “Keep the engine running. Watch the street.”
It was a tactical choice, but it was also a kindness. He knew I needed to do this alone. He knew whatever happened upstairs—whatever truth I dragged out of Riven—was between the two of us.
“Give me an hour,” I said.
“You’ve got thirty minutes,” Dane countered. “If you’re not back, or if he tries anything…”
His eyes flashed amber. The wolf sat very close to the surface.
“I’ll handle him,” I said.
Exiting the vehicle, I yanked the rear door open and grabbed Riven’s arm. “Out.”
He stepped onto the pavement, unfolding his tall frame from the backseat. He towered over me, even in cuffs, even exhausted. But he let me steer him.
I marched him to the front door, unlocking it with fumblingfingers, then shoved him into the hallway. The stairs creaked under our feet. The air smelled of damp wood and old dust.
We reached my flat. “Inside,” I said, keeping my tone level.
Riven walked in. He stopped in the centre of the living room, his gaze tracking the space he had occupied only three days ago—the empty mug on the counter, the blanket on the sofa where I had slept alone.
I shut the door behind us.
“Take a seat,” I told him, gesturing to the hard-backed chair.
He sat. He looked at me, waiting.
I didn’t uncuff him. I wanted him to feel the metal. I wanted him to remember that I was the one with the power now.
“Varessia told me,” I whispered, the words tearing out of my throat. “In the lobby. She said she went to the Old Quarter hunting a flare. She said she killed Eamon because she was looking for me.”
Riven went completely still. He absorbed the words, his expression locking into a rigid, guarded mask.
“Is it true?” I demanded, my voice trembling with a rage I struggled to contain. “Did my father die because I lost control of my magic? Did you stand there and watch him die to protect me?”
He remainedsilent and turned his head, the muscles in his jaw working as he fought to keep the words locked behind his teeth.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the green leather journal, slamming it onto the table between us.
