She tucks her arms behind her back. “This doesn’t change anything.”
When she turns to go, I catch her wrist.
“Come to North Hold at sundown.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“Just say you’ll come.”
She looks out at the crowd instead of meeting my eye. “I’ll think about it,” she says after a long pause.
It’s as good as I can hope for. I’m not giving up on her, but it’s going to take a Divine-damn miracle to win her back.
64
HARLOW
The dark feels the slightest bit less oppressive as I climb up the stairs in front of North Hold. I told myself I only came here to avoid Kellan, who spent most of the afternoon hunting me from bar to bar around the city, trying to talk.
Fortunately for me, he’s become the most popular man in Lunameade, so it was easy to lose him in a crowd of enthusiastic citizens.
Eventually, I’ll be forced to hear him out, to unpack the complicated mix of anger, relief, and gratitude that he fought for me when I thought he had given up. For now, I need space.
For some reason, that space has led me to the last place I ever thought I’d go willingly.
I knock, but there’s no answer. Apprehension swells in my stomach. I knock twice more with no reply.
I should leave. Run. Go find the tunnel key and force my siblings to take me through it. Anything would be better than standing suspended in the threshold of North Hold, as afraid to step inside as I am to walk away. I’m not a coward, but I’m so afraid of what new horror stepping into my sister’s home will unleash.
I can’t decide if it’s worse to wonder what Aidia didn’t tell me about what happened to her behind closed doors, or if finding evidence of specific horrors will make it worse.
Finally, I summon enough courage to open the door and step inside. The grand staircase in the entryway is bright, lit by an array of sunstones that gleam off the white marble floor and bounce off the glass-blown chandelier hanging from the third-story ceiling.
A faint groan sounds from somewhere in the house, but I can’t place it.
“Hello?” I call.
Movement overhead catches my eye. Henry leans over the third-floor banister. “We’re up here.”
I climb the stairs slowly, uneasiness churning in my stomach as I reach the second-floor landing. Another flight of stairs and I’m breathless from fear.
I round the railing and draw up short.
Henry stands over Rafe, brandishing a fire poker. He looks feral. His hair is damp with sweat and hanging in his eyes. The top few buttons of his white shirt are undone, his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong forearms, and his hands are covered in blood.
“What do you think?” he asks, pointing the poker at Rafe. “Is it enough?”
Rafe’s face is mottled with bruises. His left eye is swollen closed, his nose looks broken, and his chin is covered with dried blood. His right wrist hangs at an odd angle, and he’s curled over his ribs like some of them are broken.
No. It’s not enough. It would be impossible to make him feel the claustrophobic fear I’ve felt ebbing, trapped in a body out of my control—to make him hurt the way I’ve hurt.
“This is the second go,” Henry says. “I already healed him up once. I figured it’s only fair since he did it to both of you.”
He sounds so casual about recreating my wounds and Aidia’s on the man who delivered them to us.
My chest feels too full. Seeing Rafe always brings back bad memories, but seeing how meticulously Henry paid attention—how he made sure to deliver all the same injuries—is strangely romantic. This violent intimacy should horrify me, but I’m more turned on than disgusted and more relieved than sad.
Rafe blinks up at me and mumbles something through his broken teeth.
