He has the nerve to put this on me?
“You’re the one who said you’d never be entirely truthful with me. How am I supposed to know what you will and will not answer? How am I supposed to know what there is to ask?”
“The second you have a question, you ask it. Seems pretty simple.”
“Simple? Brennan is alive. You made a deal with my mother for my life. She put those scars on your back. Tell me, Xaden, is it only the secrets about my family you want me to dig out of you? You holding anything about Mira?”
“Shit.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want you to know about the scars, that’s true, but I would have told you if you’d asked.”
“I asked last year,” I challenge, walking toward the windows to look out over the rebuilt city, my anger heating my blood…but not my skin yet, thank the gods.
“I’m sorry. I can’t change last year, and though you’ve said you understand why I kept you in the dark, I don’t think you’ve actually forgiven me.”
“I…” Have I? Wrapping my arms around myself, I watch a riot of ten fly overhead, my mind racing with the deal he made, with him knowing, him testing me with his ridiculous questions. And he still hasn’t told me everything about the scars on his back or what I suspect from the cave about Sgaeyl bonding him. How much more can there be?
“As for the scars, I said you didn’t want to know how I got them. You can’t honestly tell me that you’re happy knowing, are you?”
My stomach twists.
“Of course not!” I spin to face him. “She cut into you over and over!” I shake my head, truly unable to fathom her actions, let alone how he endured it.
“Yes.” He nods as if it’s just a fact, a piece of history. “And I didn’t offer the information because I knew you’d find some way to blame yourself just like you’ve assumed guilt for everything that’s gone wrong in the last few months.”
I stiffen. “I have not—”
“You have.” He walks forward, stopping at the edge of the bed. “And the scars on my back are not your fault. Yes, your life was the unnamed price for the marked ones entering the quadrant.” He shrugs. “Your mother called in her favor, and I gave it. Do you want me to apologize for a deal I made before I knew you? Before I loved you? A deal that kept us alive? Started the flow of weaponry to the fliers? Because I won’t. I’m not sorry.”
“I’m not mad about the deal.” How does he not understand? “I’m pissed that you kept it from me, that you insist on making me ask for things you should openly share. How the hell am I in love with you when I feel like I barely know you sometimes?”
“Because I let you live long enough for us to fall in love,” he says. “Without that deal, gods know what I would have done in my need for revenge. Ask me why I don’t regret it. Ask me about the first time I saw you. Ask me about the moment I almost killed you despite the deal and decided not to. Ask me why. Ask me something! Fight back like you would have done last year before I broke your trust. Stop being so scared of the answers or waiting for me to give them to you. Demand the truth! I need you to love all of me—not just what you decide to see.”
“How are we still having the same fight five months later?” I shake my head. He can tell me or he can choose not to, but I’m done having to guess which questions to ask.
“Because it wasn’t just me who shattered your trust last year. Because you were too pissed about my refusal to answer the superficial questions about the revolution to ask the real ones about us. Because you didn’t have a chance to find your feet before you were tortured. Because I came for you, told you that I love you, and you decided you could admit to loving me, even be with me, but we skipped over the step where you admit to fully trusting me. Take your pick. It’s like we’re still on that parapet last year, but I’m not the one worried you’ll find something unlikable if you dig a little deeper. You are.”
“That’s bullshit.” I shake my head. “And how am I supposed to fully trust you when battle-axes are flying out of armoires left and right?”
He lifts his scarred brow. “I’m not sure I understand—”
“It was an analogy I used with Imogen. Never mind.” I wave him off.
“About battle-axes in armoires?” His head tilts as he studies me.
I rub the center of my forehead. “I basically said that if a battle-ax came flying out of an armoire and almost killed you, you’d want to check out the armoire to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.”
“Hmm.” He glances out of the corner of his eye to where our uniforms hang side by side, and his brow furrows in thought. “I can work with this.”
“I’m sorry?”
“What’s in our armoire right now?” He crosses his arms over his chest.
My mouth opens, shuts, then opens again. “Uniforms. Boots. Flight leathers.”
“How many uniforms? Which pairs of boots?” Shadows curl along the floor, stretching from beneath our bed to the armoire doors. “Do you actually know what’s in there? Or do you just trust that I haven’t moved your belongings and everything’s where you left it?”
“It’s an analogy.” This is ridiculous. “And I open that armoire every single day. I know where things hang because I see them.”
“What about the blanket my mother made me that’s tucked back on the top shelf?” Two strands of shadow reach for handles and open the armoire doors.
“I didn’t go snooping.” I shake my head, my eyes narrowing at him.
A corner of his mouth rises. “Because you trust me.”
“Analogy.” I enunciate every syllable.
“So ask the question, Violet,” he says softly, in that calm, controlled tone that makes me lift my chin. “Humor me.”
“Fine,” I grit out through my teeth. “Do you happen to have a battle—” Shadows surge from the armoire, and I catch the glint of metal a heartbeat before the bands of darkness hold a dagger to within inches of my chin.
I gasp, then lock every muscle. “What the fuck, Xaden?”
“Am I going to hurt you?” The carpet makes his bootsteps nearly silent as he crosses the room, giving me plenty of time to object or retreat, but I don’t.
“I’m going to hurt you if you don’t get that away from me.” I keep my eyes on him.
“Would I ever let this knife hurt you?” His boots touch the tips of mine, and he leans into my space.
“Of course not.”
