Even most married couples never managed to perform one.
"Saints," Ferris breathed. "Your father's a fucking asshole. And your mother. . ."
I blinked a few times, realizing he must have seen a snippet of my past: Father's backhanded strikes, Mother's disdainful scorn.
"Why?" I demanded. "Why did he hurt you?"
Ferris stared into the sea. “There’s more to the story, but I don’t want to tell it.” His eyes sharpened, and he smiled again. “I couldn’t let your father do the same to you. Scars like that they . . . they cut deeper than others.”
I stared at him, drinking in this information, remembering the night we met.
The night assassins had struck at his father.
“The Solheart assassin,” I blurted out. “I shouldn’t have stopped him.”
Ferris looked up. “What?”
“The one sent to kill your father. I shouldn’t have stopped him.”
Taken aback, Ferris stared at me silently before lowering his head again. “No, I’m glad you did. Despite our . . . complicated relationship, I don’t want him to die.”
“Why not?”
“Why?” He shifted closer again, nose an inch from mine. “If someone tried to kill your father, would you stop them? Even now?”
A chaotic ball of emotions formed in my stomach at his question. Even amidst its din, I knew my answer without thinking.
“Yes,” I said.
Ferris spoke, and his words mirrored my thoughts. “I can’t even claim to hate him. I just wish . . .”
“He loved you,” I said, throat tightening.
Once it had become clear I was not the girl my father wanted me to be, he’d never looked upon me with fondness. Only disappointment. Contempt. Growing indifference.
Ferris chuckled. “I’m supposed to be comfortingyou.” He traced his thumb across the back of my palm.
Ripples spread through the calm waters surrounding us, and the wind picked up in the heavens.
My chest did something it had never done before; my heart flipped. Butterflies rushed through my stomach.
I yanked my hand away.
Our strange little world dissipated. I sat on a mattress in a small guest room, blankets twisted around my legs. Ferris sat beside me, back turned to the window.
A shadow flitted across the glass.
Had it been my imagination?
I shot to my feet and grabbed my sword. “How did you get in?”
Ferris tilted his head toward the open door. “I picked the lock. It wasn’t all that hard, actually. You’d think the palace would—” He cut off, eyes widening.
I heard what he did—the sound of muffled footsteps closing in on us.
The window shattered. Glass shards flew across the room, striking my back. I whirled around as a shadow burst into the room.
He wore ebony armor, and a cloak and cowl hid his features. Sword raised, he brought it down on me.
