Page 115 of Stealing Tink

But I am me, and I have no such option. I could kick him or throw something at him to get his attention, but that would feel petulant. So as it is, I stand and wait for the man I love to notice that I’m even in the room.

In the end, it’s not me who gets his attention. A second round of alarms sounds outside the tent, and the music stops short, and the Nomad whirls around, and when he sees me, he opens his mouth. But before he gets the chance to explain, rather, before he is forced to come up with yet another lie, I shake my head.

I’m so tired of hearing lies.

I don’t whirl around. Any threat to my well-being out there is nothing compared to the man before me.

The Nomad’s gaze darts behind me, to the closed tent flap.

A guard outside yells, “Escaped performer on the loose! Golden-haired faerie.”

Oh, great.

The Nomad’s face holds a question, but another guard answers it soon enough. “Ringmaster said she escaped years ago from the competition, but she was spotted tonight in the crowd.”

The Nomad’s attention snaps back to me. “You went to see him, didn’t you?”

If I could let out a wry laugh, I would. Not to see him, I sign. To find you.

Guilt washes over the Nomad’s face. Guilt for accusing me of sneaking away to see my ex-abuser, or guilt for what I found when I arrived, I can’t be sure.

You lied, I sign.

The Nomad shakes his head. “Tink, I can explain later. But right now, we have no time. You and I have to…”

There is no you and I, I sign, my fingers writhing in the closest thing to a scream I can imitate. You lied to me. My voice…

I place my hand on my throat, and the touch of skin there isn’t as comforting as it once was.

The Nomad stands to his feet, takes a step forward. “Please. Please, just trust me.”

I take a step back.

“You know me,” he whispers.

I roll my eyes and turn to leave, but the tent flap rears back, and before I can respond, a guard appears before me.

He must only be sixteen, wide-eyed and human and terrified of a winged faerie, my face wrenched into an awful expression from my fight with the Nomad. I suppose he’s scared of me, like John once was.

Except this boy isn’t methodical like John. Except this boy doesn’t think before he acts.

Instead, he thrusts his sword into my gut.

I don’t feel it at first. It doesn’t register, not until behind me, the Nomad lets out a roar that practically shakes the tent.

The guard boy has the good sense to run, but he drops the hilt of his sword, the weight of which pulls me off of my balance and onto my knees.

The Nomad is by my side in an instant, gazing into my eyes, then down at the wound in my side, the sword still protruding out, then back at me. There’s a buzzing in my ears that matches the commotion outside the tent as I wait for the pain to commence, but my body must still be in shock, because I feel nothing, not even the Nomad’s hand on my chin as he turns my face to look at him.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting in my last moments. For him to shed a tear for me? For him to at least put on his affectionate act that I’ve come to love so well?

Instead, he just looks angry. He stares at me a moment, and then something in him changes, and his face goes cold.

I’d say it’s the first time I’d seen the coldness in his eyes, but that would be lying.

These are the eyes that haunt my nightmares.

“I’m glad you’re still alive,” whispers the Nomad, stroking my chin. “Otherwise I’d have to waste time hunting down that boy for getting to you first.”