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“She’s gone!” His breath comes sharp. “And you almost followed her!”

“I didn’t ask you to care.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” I step closer. “Why does it matter?”

The question hits him like a blow. He opens his mouth. Closes it. His hands come up—not quite reaching me—and drop back to his sides.

“You act like losing you wouldn’t ruin me.” His voice breaks around the truth. “Like dragging you back from death didn’t scare the hell out of whatever’s left of me.”

“You hate me half the time.”

“I don’t hate you.” It sounds like it costs him blood to say it. “I wanted to. I needed to. Hate would’ve made you easier to survive.” His jaw works, like the rest of it had teeth. “But I have dragged myself through every reason I should despise you, Selah, and all I ever found was more of you.”

My pulse stutters.

“Then tell me why.” I hate how small my voice sounds. Hate that I need the answer anyway. “Tell me why you care.”

He steps closer, voice dropping because shouting can’t hold it.

“Because you walked out of that barn with blood on your hands and fire in your eyes—and for one second I thought the world was giving me something back.”

My breath catches.

His throat works.

“But I don’t get things back.” His voice goes quieter. Meaner somehow. “I lose them. I bury them. I survive them.”

He looks at me like the sight of me standing there hurts him.

“And today, I almost had to bury you.”

The kitchen goes quiet around us.

Only the sink keeps dripping. Slow. Uneven. Blood thins pink in the basin. His shirt lies in a dark heap on the floor, and the air still smells like iron, fever, and cinnamon bread gone cold.

His hand lifts.

Shaking.

He brushes a strand of hair from my face like the contact might ruin him.

“The world keeps taking from me,” he murmurs. “You’re the only thing I’ve reached back for.”

His thumb stills near my cheek.

“And now they know where to cut.”

XX

Come with me

“Drop the damn rag and come with me.”

I open my mouth—ready to argue, ready to bite—but there’s no point. It never gets me anywhere with him. Malek hasn't stopped circling the edges since the day he shoved me into that barn and called it “training.” Since the Hollowborn nearly shredded my leg to pieces. Since I bled on his hands and he went feral in a way I still don’t have the language for.

“You need a haircut.” I avoid looking anywhere but his face—because if he sees too much, he’ll know I’m not as put-together as this rag and these clean windows pretend.