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“Fuck,” he croaks as he staggers into the back of the sofa, then slumps down to the floor.

I climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and drive the dagger deeper.

He coughs, eyes bulging. “Kansas,” he rasps. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

I lean into him. “You’ve grossly underestimated me.”

He laughs and the sound comes out rough and wet. “It seems I have.”

But then he disappears from beneath me, and I hit the rug face-first.

I scurry to my feet just in time to see him come at me, my knife now firmly in his grip.

My only thought is to put distance between us and I leap over the back of the sofa, get my feet tangled beneath me, then somersault across the cushions, whacking my legs on the edge of the heavy wooden coffee table.

Before I can right myself, Rook’s hand is clawed in my hair, pulling me to my feet. He kicks the table back with his boot and it makes a loud, discordant sound as it slides off the rug and over the stone floor.

The pressure on my hair is almost too much to bear, and I wrap both my hands around Rook’s wrist trying to take some of the tension away. But he is relentless and I have to crane my neck, bending to his will.

“Now what, Kansas?”

Blood is smeared across his jaw and painted across his midsection.

I didn’t think this far ahead.

“You are powerful, yes, but so ill-equipped, it’s almost sad.”

I wince, both from the insult and his steady grip on my hair.

“Let me teach you.”

My mouth drops open. “What?”

“I can teach you how to be powerful.”

The offer is enticing. Immediately, my brain starts thinking of all the reasons I should say yes. He’s the most powerful person in Oz. Who better to teach me how to use my magic?

But just as quickly, doubt trickles in.

Could I trust him to teach me everything he knows? Or would he only teach me what he wanted me to learn?

“No,” I answer.

“Then take my advice: go home.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask, repeating the earlier question that he refused to answer.

His jaw clenches. He’s turning paler by the second as the wound in his side gushes blood. He’ll need a doctor, or some magical concoction, if he’s to recover.

“I earned this place on the throne.” His breathing is shallow and his grip is loosening. “You fought none of these battles and now here you are, threatening everything I’ve worked for.”

“So send me home.”

It’s a challenge. He knows it as much as I do.

We are two crashing waves fighting for the same shore, and yet when we are at rest, it’s impossible to know where our edges begin and end.

“Where is the fun in that, Kansas?” he says and lets me go, staggering back. His movements are slow and languid now and he holds his arm against his midsection, wincing beneath the pain and pressure.