Page 94 of The Shadow Sanctum

As resourceful as Sawyer is… As smart as he is, as cunning as he is…

It’s me he needs. Me, who has to betray my people, my beliefs, myself. Until I don’t even know who I am anymore.

I’m a stripped-down version of the woman who lured this chameleon here. A weaker version. A softer version.

A Sawyer version. I don’t know what I’ll do if he ever throws me away. I don’t know what I’ll do if I become a necklace he wears around his neck.

“Fine,” I say with too much bite. In reality, I’m certain of the choice. I don’t know who I am, but I see what I have to do. Who I’ll have to become.

Anyone but my father’s daughter.

“I’ll find a source. With Thorne’s help, and no one else's. No one is to know about this, not even the children… So start thinking of a way to give it to them without their knowledge because I have work to do.”

I push past Angel toward the stairs and clench my jaw, as if angry about the arrangement. But I’m not. Just betrayed. Again. This time, by myself.

“Hey,” Sawyer calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs, and I don’t stop.

At the top, I shove open the heavy door and step into the Hearth’s main hall. The air feels clearer, lighter, though it burns my lungs all the same. My pulse pounds with every stride, my boots echoing sharp across the wood. I keep my back straight, chin high, the picture of control. But inside, I’m splintering.

Sawyer catches up quickly. His hand curls around my arm to stop me, and I whirl, ready to lash, but his expression steals the bite from my tongue. He isn’t smug. He isn’t demanding. He just looks at me like I’ve done something remarkable.

Before I can speak, he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. The kiss is deep, anchoring, a collision of relief and gratitude that melts the fury in my veins. My knees nearly buckle, but his hand at my waist holds me steady.

In a moment, my mind is at rest.

When he pulls back, his forehead presses to mine. His voice is low, husky, every word a weight in my chest.

“Thank you.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is too tight.

“I love you,” he adds, firmer now, as if daring me to argue. His eyes search mine, steady, unwavering. “I love every version of you… but I appreciate this one the best.”

My eyes close at that, and I try not to fall apart at his words. But they flood through me, dangerous and sweet, a poison I want to drink forever. I close my eyes and grip his shirt to keep myself from collapsing. I let the silence between us carry what I can’t bring myself to say.

I love you too.

CHAPTER 27

LUNA

It’s been two days since the first doses arrived.

Ten rounds of antibiotics smuggled in under cover of night, pressed into my hands like stolen gold. We chose the sickest children first—the ones whose fevers burned hottest and coughs rattled deepest. Some have improved. Their color livens each chime of the clock, and their eyes grow progressively less glassy. Others still fade, their chests rising too shallow, too slow.

This morning, another ten doses came. Thorne risked more than he should have to secure them. I told him I was grateful, but the words felt thin. Gratitude doesn’t buy more medicine. Gratitude doesn’t make ten become thirty.

It still isn’t enough.

The numbers circle my head like carrion birds. Fourteen children untreated. A dozen adults showing symptoms. The Dregs are lucky they already perished because I’d have nothing for them anyway.

It’s ironic that the treat I gave them is what got them all killed. Not that Sawyer told me what Angel laced, but it only took a day to remember the loaf of bread and apples I brought them in exchange for Sawyer’s necklace. If it’d been the apples, I’d be sick as well, along with many others.

So it was the bread the Dregs ate. And the scones made special for the children.

Angel is a bastard for it, and every other second, I think about killing him. But a small part of me is grateful he didn’t choose the water supply. He only intended to kill my father. And me.

We’ve been slipping the doses to the Hearth in secret. Grinding powder into porridge, broth stirred with a careful hand. Nurturers whisper that the food tastes off, and every delivery of food carries away hopeful, knowing glances. Murmurs are spreading, but no one has stopped us. Not yet.