So I tuck it away. Mentally file it somewhere behind the images of Clara’s blood, the chanting, the queen and that man, and the overwhelming truth that magick is real and people here die for it…because of it.
“But none of that is important right now,” Alder says. “You’re here. With me. Isn’t that all that matters?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s not.”
His jaw ticks. “Why are you being like this?”
“Why amIbeing like this?” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have to justify having an emotional reaction to the fact that I just witnessed a ritual sacrifice.”
“Gemma, stop.” His expression shifts. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?” I scoff. “Or is it easier for you if I’m the one being dramatic? That way you don’t have to actuallysee me.”
“I’ve always seen you.”
“No,” I say, my voice quiet but cutting. “You’ve always seen the version of me that needed you. The one who’d fold when you said fold. The one who didn’t push too hard or ask too many questions.”
He laughs bitterly. “That’s rich. Considering you’ve never stopped running long enough to let anything between us actually stick.”
“Oh, don’t turn this around on me,” I say. “You want to talk about the last ten years? Let’s talk about how every time I needed you, you turned it into a test. Every time I came back, it was just another game of control. You pull me in, push me away. You dangle what I want just far enough away to keep me reaching.”
“I’ve always been there,” he growls. “You think I stuck around because I liked the power trip? No, Gemma. I stayed because you were mine. Because no matter how far you ran, you always came back.”
“Maybe that’s the problem,” I whisper.
A silence stretches between us, jagged and raw. We’re both breathing hard, both flushed with more than just anger.
He takes a step forward like he might try again. But then he stops. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his expression twisting into something bitter and mean.
“Forget it,” he barks, voice rough. “I’m not doing this with you.” He spins on his heel and stalks toward the door. The echo of his footsteps is thunderous, every step vibrating like a slammed drawer in my chest.
“Right,” I say coolly, arms crossed tightly around myself. “Let’s not actually be honest. Let’s not deal withanything.”
He freezes, just for a second. His knuckles go white around the brass doorknob, but he doesn’t turn back. Doesn’t say a word.
The door swings open.
And then he’s gone.
The door slams shut behind him, leaving me alone with the mess he always makes but never bothers to clean up.
Sixteen
Alder didn’t come back last night.
I don’t know why I expected him to. I fell asleep facing the door like a tragic, languishing Victorian heroine abandoned by her lover—except I’m not in a corset and this isn’t a novel.
My dinner tray remains untouched by the fireplace, the once-warm bread now stale and hard, the butter congealed like a sad metaphor.
I don’t regret what I said. Not one word. We’ve been circling each other for a decade—hot, cold, together, apart—and I’ve been complicit in every messy, muddled part of it. But yesterday morning…that was different. The henhouse. The laughter. The flower he tucked behind my ear. That felt like something real. Something whole. And now here I am—alone in a cold castle room that smells like soot and rejection.
The door creaks open.
“Good morning!” Sylvie sings, balancing a new tray with practiced grace. “I brought—oh.”
Her smile falters the moment she sees the dinner tray.Her gaze flicks to me, sitting upright on the edge of the bed, hair a mess, eyes gritty, dress wrinkled, then back to the tray.
“I guess you weren’t hungry,” she says gently, setting the breakfast tray down beside the untouched one.
