“I will tell Carnage to shoot you if you say he’s a good guy after he just murdered our friend.” My voice cracks on the last word and I hate myself for it.
He nods stiffly, and something in his expression shifts, the mask slipping to reveal his own grief, raw and bleeding underneath. “Kellan had a hand in breaking him, Toren. Regardless of how you or I feel, I always knew some of the people I cared about wouldn’t make it out of this. I hate your brother, his death won’t affect me. But Kellan’s did.” His voice roughens. “I’m hurting too. I was angry at him, but I never wanted him dead. You have to know that.”
“Then why didn’t you stop him?” I scream, and the tears come, hot and furious, because this is the question that will eat me alive.
Why didn’t Cas stop him?
Why didn't I stop him?
Why did I stand there and watch, just let it happen?
“He once told me,” Cas says quietly, “you have to fall in order to know where you stand.” He holds my gaze, and for the first time tonight, he looks as wrecked as I feel. “He’s falling, Terror. You just flipped his entire world upside down. He’ll never admit it to you, but he needs you right now, and I’m asking you to help me help him.”
And there it is.
The cruelest request anyone has ever made of me. Go to the man who murdered your friend. Comfort the hands that pulled the trigger. Love the monster who took everything from you and dared to smile while he did it.
The worst part, the part that makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds, is that a part of me wants to go.
“Why the fuck should I do that?” I demand, and my voice is steel even as everything inside me fractures. “We are at war, Cas.”
“Both of you have had plenty of chances to kill each other,” he says, “and yet you’re both still breathing.” He lets that land. “Sooner or later, after your father and brother are dead, you and Xaden will have to face each other. Answer me this, Terror.”
He takes a step forward, the red dot still burning on his chest like a warning he no longer cares about.
“When that time comes... can you really look him in the eyes as you pull that trigger?”
The question detonates inside me, and I have no answer. Because the truth is a contradiction that’s going to tear me apart. I would burn the whole world down to avenge KennaDee, Kellanand Emery. I would dismantle Xaden piece by piece and salt the earth where he stood.
But when I imagine standing over him with a gun in my hand, looking into those devastating eyes one last time...
I don’t see a trigger being pulled.
I see a girl breaking in half.
And that’s why he’s the most dangerous person alive. Not because he can kill me, but because he’s the only one who can make me hesitate.
I’ll just have to make sure that when the time comes, I don’t.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
XADEN
I've been sitting here for hours, drowning myself, tipping back a bottle of Grey Goose. I got sick of the taste of the brandy and bourbon so decided to try vodka. It's going down smoother than the others—or maybe it's because I'm drunk. I really don't give a fuck. All I know is I feel good. I feel nothing, and that's exactly what I want. Relaxed for the first time in years. It's been a long ass time since I've gotten drunk and I'm suddenly wondering why I ever stopped getting lit. This is better. This is so much fucking better than feeling.
I squint my eyes and look out the windshield and my stomach drops because for half a second—just half a fucking second—I think I see them. But I blink and it's just the dark. Just the empty, dead dark.
“You're not even there.” My voice cracks and I fucking hate it. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache. “You're not even there. You fucking left.”
Something shifts in my chest. Something soft and weak tries to claw its way up, tries to wrap itself around my ribs and squeeze, and I shove it down so hard I nearly choke.
No. No. I don't do that. I don't fucking feel that.
I take another swig and love the feeling of the alcohol burning my throat. It's a reminder that I'm alive and they aren't. And the second that thought lands, the softness tries again, tries to crack me open, and I slam the door shut on it the only way I know how.
“Fuck!” I yell, and my fist connects with the steering wheel. The horn blares but it doesn't disrupt my rampage. I'm too hyper focused on the need to feel pain, something sharp and clean, to simply drown out the other thing, that fucking ache in my chest that isn't anger, that I refuse to name. A minute ago I was perfect, I was numb, I was fine, and now… Now it's trying to get in. It's trying to make me remember and I won't.
I won't.
