Page 43

My voice cracks.

Damn it.

“But I was not strong enough.” Pursing my lips together, my nostrils flare as I attempt to continue my words.

“Edward—” Alcott tries to state, but I interject.

“No.” I shake my head. “Do not soften this. Do not make it pretty because you are uncomfortable.”

He closes his mouth.

“Our parents sold us. Hurt us, let others hurt us and I could not stop them. Then The Collector came, and I could not stop him either. All I have ever done is fail to protect the people who mattered most.”

Alcott’s eyes darken.

Something flickers behind them but it is not amusement.

Not Darkness.

Pain.

I press my injured hand against my chest as though I can force the ache back inside. “So yes, I will stay away from Olive. I will suffer. I will rot. I will want her from across the city until it hollows me out if that is what keeps her breathing.”

Alcott stares at me. The silence stretches.

Then he asks, very softly, “Do you like suffering?”

I laugh shortly and it comes out sounding broken. “No.”

“Then why do you keep choosing it?” His question is simple. Innocent almost.

“Because it is mine.” The answer surprises even me.

Alcott frowns. I swallow hard.

“The pain is mine. The longing is mine. The loneliness is mine. I can carry those. I know how to carry those.” I look at him then. “But if The Collector takes her because of me? If he hurts her because I was selfish enough to stand too close?” My voice lowers. “I cannot carry that.”

For a long moment, Alcott says nothing, then he exhales through his nose and looks toward the hole in the wall. “You are an imbecile.”

I close my eyes and state, “Thank you.”

“No, truly. A monumental one.” He huffs at me.

“I understood you the first time,” I explain.

“She is already in danger, Edward.”

My eyes open at his words. Alcott looks back at me, all teasing gone.

“You think distance protects her because distance gives you the illusion of control. But The Collector already knows of the Widow. He already wants her. Your absence will not make him forget.” He stands there, looking at me for the answers. The floor seems to shift beneath me.

“He does not know she is mine,” I murmur softly, rubbing my hand through my hair.

Alcott tilts his head in curiosity. “Is she?”

The question is quiet, not mocking. That somehow makes it worse. I look away. “She is not anyone’s.”

“Precisely.” Alcott steps closer. “Which means perhaps you should stop making decisions on her behalf.”