His voice roughens.
“And the ugliest truth? I’m angry at her for coming back at all.” He laughs once, humorless. “Which makes me a shitty person, because she died, and I… Well, I didn’t.”
He stares at the floor.
“But I’m also angry because you’re mine,” he says. “And she looked at you like you were the thief.”
His throat works. He swallows hard.
“And I can’t stand it. Because if anyone’s the thief, it’s me.”
And… wow.
“That was a lot,” I comment.
“Yeah.” He exhales like he’s surprised it came out of him. “Guess it just… spilled. There’s a lot I hate at the moment.”
“Ditto,” I say. “But I’m supposed to mirror now, so… bear with me.”
I reach for his hand and stroke it with my thumb.
“You hate that she can hurt me,” I say. “And you feel helpless because the biggest threats aren’t things you can kill. And you’re blaming yourself for what Rhea became. And you’re angry at her for coming back because it feels like she’s trying to claim space that belongs to me.”
Talon’s eyes lift to mine.
“And,” I add, “you think you stole something from her by surviving.”
His mouth opens, then closes. He nods again, smaller this time.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That.”
I let out a slow breath. The tile is freezing through my clothes, but I don’t move.
“Are you sure you didn’t play this game before?” I joke. “That was really proficient of you.”
He scoffs and shifts his grip so that where I’d been caressing him, he’s now clasping my hand with one hand while the other starts playing with my fingers one by one.
“Your turn,” he says. “It goes both ways, right?”
“Right,” I murmur.
But I wonder—just like him—where a good place to start even is. I feel so much. I’ve felt so much since I died. And it’s like, with each passing moment, something else stacks onto my tower of misery.
I inhale, close my eyes, and decide to go with the flow. The first thing I feel, I say. Just like that.
“I’m tired,” I say. “Really fucking tired. Sick, honestly, of being told what to do. By Death. By Rhea. By three traumatized girls who, frankly, kind of deserve to be helped. I feel bad for them, you know? But I just… I don’t want to be forced into things I didn’t choose.”
I swallow and open my eyes. His expression is compassionate. Genuinely empathetic.
“And I also hate things,” I continue. “I hate that I can’t kill Mark. It makes me feel like I’m back under his hands sometimes. And I’m scared,” I say, “that my power is gone, and Pain is gone, and I’m going to become… useless. Or worse. A liability.”
My fingers dig into my sleeve.
“When Rhea called me your new love, part of me wanted to kill her. And then,” I add, quieter, “I felt your guilt, and it hurt so much. So much. So another thing I hate is that… I don’t really know what’s up with you and her. You didn’t break up. She died on you.”
I take a breath.
“So I need you to be honest. With me. Even when it’s ugly. Because everything else right now is shifting, and you’re…” My voice catches. “You’re one of the only things that feels real. So if you feel bad—like now—I want to know it first. Don’t shut me out. Just… spill it out.”
