“Your bedside manner remains astonishing.”
“You are breathing again. I am counting that as success.”
Caspian’s hands curled against the table, almost fists.
“If accepting me means refusing them,” he said, and stopped.
Cosima looked at him.
The look was quick.
Devastated.
Then gone.
Caspian made himself continue.
“If accepting me means refusing them, and that hurts you, then you should not accept me.”
The words came out rougher than any words he had ever spoken to me before, as if each one had to get past his father first.
For a moment, I could not find the version of Caspian Ashford I had been using to dislike him.
That was dangerous.
So I found the next sharp thing instead.
“You say that now.”
“I say it now.”
“And at the formal?”
“I will say it then.”
“In front of your father?”
His face paled another shade, which I had not thought possible.
“Yes.”
“In front of Quill?”
“Yes.”
“In front of everyone who trained you to be the answer they wanted?”
For the first time, he looked angry.
“Especially then.”
The Mark reached for him without my permission.
Then balked.
Pain snapped across my wrist.
I hissed.
