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“So was I.” Silence falls, there is nowhere to place that truth. No neat box, no justification sharp enough to cut it into something easier. He was a child and now he is the Collector, a complete monster made, but still an evil monster still.

He watches me process it. “Your men do not know, do they?”

My face stills.

“About the fire? About the family you buried beneath your survival?”

I do not answer and his smile returns. “There. Another treasure.”

“Leave them out of this,” I order.

“Oh, Olive.” He laughs softly. “They are the only reason this is interesting.”

My fingers curl into my skirts. “They will find me.”

“I hope they try.”

The calm certainty of it sickens me and he gestures to the food between us. “Eat.”

“No.”

“You are starving.”

“I said no.”

“It is not poisoned,” he exclaims.

“Then you eat it.”

He lifts a slice of pear from the plate and places it delicately in his mouth. Chews. Swallows.

Then smiles. “See?”

I stare at him, he sighs. “You wound me. I have no desire to poison you.”

“Because you prefer games.”

“Because poison would make for a poor collectible.” My skin goes cold at his words, he leans forward again, voice softening into something intimate and vile.

“You see, I have spent years collecting beautiful things men thought they owned. Secrets, bodies, loyalties and obedience.” His eyes move over my face. “But you, Olive, are different.”

“I am not yours.”

“Not yet.”

I force myself not to flinch. He reaches across the table and touches the ruby pendant still at my throat, the one Lazarus used to lure me into his false little game of Lord Fallere. My chest aches for Lazarus. Edward. Alcott.

Do not think of them.

Do not give him that. The Collector notices anyway.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “The Sickle’s gift? Or did the pretty brother choose it? Perhaps Edward, he always did have a weakness for precious things he could not protect.”

My vision turns red. “Do not say his name.”

“Edward?” He smiles. “Why not? He is mine too.”

“No.”