“Then what? What?”
“You, Rory. I think he wants you to…love him.”
She lets out a snort. “That’s fucking crazy.”
“Is it? Think about it. He’s obsessed with you. Everything he’s done here has to keep you safe and improve your wellbeing, and I guess…” I can’t believe I’m saying this, “…I guess I can’t fault him for that.”
Imran lets out a small, thready moan behind us.
We pull apart instantly, our focus snapping back to the cot. Imran is fading fast, his skin shifting from a feverish flush to a translucent, waxy gray. The brief rally is over, and the dark reality is crashing back down.
This place breaks so many things. Especially hope and trust.
Immy is already shattered beyond repair.
But as I look at Rory, the fire in her eyes, I know one thing for certain.
I won’t let it break her.
Never.
35. FRANCOIS
As I stride along the corridor, the sound of Aurora’s plea rings in my ears.
Her desperate need—a need only I can satisfy—tastes like a strange sort of victory. Yet, it does not carry the sharp, acidic bite of triumph I expected. For years, I watched my father drool over her, offering diamonds and roses as if jewels could tame her.
The fool never understood that Aurora Drakeward desires only one thing: free will.
I always believed that to win her, I simply had to master the mechanics of her desires. To show her I was the architect of her safety. But back in that suffocating cell, watching the raw agony on her face as she begged for the life of a discarded street rat, a crack formed in my own immaculate armor.
Love, it seems, is not a transaction. It is not a series of favors to be tallied or a debt to be collected. True love—the kind that makes the wolf stand on broken legs, the kind that makes Aurora bow her head to a monster—is entirely selfless. It is a willingness to dismantle oneself for the sake of another.
I will take her pet sparrow from Voss’s fingers. Not because it proves my superiority. Not even to force that reluctant gratitude to bloom in her eyes. I will do it simply because she asked.Because her sorrow is the only thing in this wretched world capable of fracturing my peace.
For a man like me, who has only ever known the cold math of leverage and power, this is a terrifying deviation. I do not care for the sparrow. Left to my own devices, I would let the machinery of this prison chew her up without a second thought. But through Aurora’s eyes, the act of saving this child becomes something elevated. Something… right. If protecting what Aurora loves is the only way to keep her whole, then I will make her morality my own. To execute her will, to keep her heart from breaking further—that is the only objective that matters now.
Arriving at the administration block entrance, my hand brushes the heavy door. The iron begs for my touch to reshape it into something more elegant. All I need to do is whisper my intent, and the poison in my veins could turn it into a gate made of gold. But my powers of transmutation are not subtle.
The Null-Wards would shriek an alert, and though Warden Voss is a fool, my molecular "fingerprint" would be easily tracked. To use my gift within the walls of Quo would be to ring a bell that could never be un-rung.
My beast rages beneath my ribs, impatient and demanding blood.Patience, mon monstre.We will play their game a little longer. We will save her sparrow with diplomacy, not violence.
A guard arrives, peering at me through the eye-level hole in the door. “Yes?”
I draw his soul to mine through our gaze, letting a fraction of my darkness leak into his mind to gently bend his compliance to my whim.
A moment later, he looks away with a shiver, unlocks the door, and asks no more questions. They all sense my monster, even if the dull minds of convicts and custodians can’t put a name to the sensation twisting their thoughts. Occasionally, I come across a more developed consciousness.
Like the wolf. Like the warden.
Warden Voss is seated behind his desk, cradling a cup of Darjeeling. He frowns at my intrusion. “What are you…?” He regains his equilibrium with a speed that suggests he’s practiced hiding his fear. “Young Mr. Crankshawe. This is a surprise.”
His effort to demean me through my father’s name is laughable. Before, I might have lingered to toy with him, to watch the fear grow organically in his throat for my own amusement. But I have no time for his tedious smallness today. Aurora is waiting.
I sit, pointedly ignoring the penurious wooden chair reserved for “convicts” and sinking instead into the velvet club chair opposite him. Finally, something comfortable.
“My name is de Vaux, as you are well aware,” I say, my voice smooth, quiet. “My father’s name holds no interest for me. My mother’s side, however… they areLe Milieuof Europe. A people of long memories and very little forgiveness. Do not use the wrong name with me again.”
