Chapter 24

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The brightest characters carry the darkest secrets.

Briar

My head's fuzzy. Everything's warm.

No.

Hot. Everything's hot. Too hot.

And I'm sad, but I can't remember why, so maybe I'm not exactly…sad. This feels worse than simple sadness. The sensation weighing in my limbs and constricting my chest is heavy and tight and bad.

It is, in a word, overwhelming.

I can't escape the burning crush. I want to cry, but Papa and Mama taught me that tears were weapons I shouldn't spare on trivial matters. I…I miss them.

I suppose after the past few months of plotting, manipulation, work, work, and more work, it was bound to happen.

At some point, all any child really wants is their parents.

But they're not here right now, are they?

No. They aren't.

So that means I need to figure things out. On my own.

I squint blearily at a fuzzy ceiling, feel the slickness of sheets beneath my hands. One dim light glows behind me. One piercing trill sounds before a flutter streaks across the room.

Where am I?

What's the last thing I remember?

It's way too hot.

"Keep your clothes on," a soothingly deep voice commands. The authority in the tone sends a fission of enticement down my spine. Cool skin cups my face, and I find Rowan in the shadows. This is his room. Our room. His thumb swipes across my cheek. "You passed out."

My fingers tighten around the fabric of my skirt, which I apparently have bunched at my waist. Thoughts swimming, I hiss, "Did you drug me?"

His jaw locks. "No. Whether you're drugged at all depends on what you consider a drug."

His mouth. His skin. His fingertips as they untangle my clothes from my hands and put my skirt back in place.

Also, ketamine, rohypnol, ecstasy…

I swear at him.

"You're drunk, princess."

I narrow my eyes. "Drunk?"

His cool fingertips graze my chin. "Yes."

That can't be right. I don't get drunk on enemy grounds. Alcohol is a tool, like tears, like knives. Speaking of…he's taken my knife. I no longer feel its comforting weight strapped to my thigh. So much for keep your clothes on. He lifted my skirt to take my knife sheath away before I ever did. "I've been violated," I mumble.

He arches a stern brow. "I only carried you to bed."

"I don't drink."

"You did. Quite a lot, too."

Turning away, I cross my arms. "You're lying."

"Briar…" He sounds so sincere.

Which is how I know he's lying.

I just wish I knew what he wanted to gain from drugging me. I want to trust that he wouldn't take the abuse we've joked with this far, but I've been in this business long enough to know you can't trust anyone who isn't family.

And he isn't my family.

Rolling over, I curl up with my back to him. Against my will, I sniffle.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs.

"I hate you."

When his heart shatters audibly behind me, I recognize the sheer depth of how horrible I am. The feeling wells up inside me with teeth and claws, and the next thing I know, I'm sobbing.

Stressing the fact I'm a bad person, I reach for his pillow—not mine—and snot against the case, wailing away like a pathetic infant.

I don't know how to be a good person now. It's too late for me. Being awful is second nature. I'm selfish and arrogant and inconsiderate. And I'm actively blowing my nose into the pillow of the sweetest guy I've ever met as though my own pillow isn't sitting—pristine—right next to me.

I'm delirious. Delusional. And rotten.

"You hate me," I croak. "And you have every right to hate me. I'm despicable."

His hand clamps around my shoulder, firm, comforting, good. "I do not hate you. Not even a little bit."

"You should," I whisper. "You should." Trembling, I fight for a quivering breath. "I'm a professional bad person."

Rubbing my arm, he murmurs, "And what do you think I am?"

So much more than he has ever dared to believe.

"Being a professional bad person is the baseline for joining a mafia, sweetheart," he whispers, near my ear, as he draws my hair back and kisses my cheek. "Didn't you know that?"

"I did." I sniff. "But now I'm mad about it." I hate everything. "Why do I even bother?" My face is sticky. I'm uncomfortable. I don't want anyone near me. I don't want anything. "Life is meaningless. And I'm tired. So…so tired."

"Sweetheart…" Something in the broken tone of his voice sounds almost…pleading.

Tilting my face from the pillow, I stare ahead at the wall beside the open bathroom door. It's all shadows, dark and darker. "What did you hope to achieve with this?" My voice is hollow, foreign even to my own ears. "The worst secret I have…doesn't have anything to do with you."

"I'm not after your secrets, princess. You got carried away during a drinking game. Subverting all expectations, it turns out you're competitive." He presses the cool back of his hand to my cheek, and I hear the desperate attempt at humor lining the hopeless edges of his warm, deep voice.

I ignore it.

"The worst secret I have," I whisper, "is that I don't want to be alive anymore."

His fingers flinch against me.

"I wasn't always this tired," I continue, every aching muscle in my body limp. "I don't…know what happened."

"Shh…" He swallows, close enough for me to hear his breath hitch as he wraps his arms around my waist, drags my back to his chest. "You'll be okay."

I won't.

I really won't.

"What a joke," I mutter. "Don't you ever get tired of pretending to be so good?" My hand lowers to his arm, and my nails dredge into his flesh. "You kill and torture people. You're terrible."

"I know."

"The worst person ever."

His muscles tighten. "Yeah."

"I hate you." My nails break skin.

"Briar, please…" he whispers, hoarse.

"I can't stand anything about you. You're so stupid. And frustrating. And barely even worth my time." My voice breaks as I choke on my own tears. "I hate you. So much. How pathetic do you have to be to wander after anyone who has the confidence to tell you what to do? You're a pet begging for a master. You'll follow any orders if they're presented to you with enough logic and reason. Have a backbone," I spit. "I—" I swear. "—hate you."

His fist clenches around my dress, and a seam tears.

"You're pitiful."

My clothes rip as he grasps them, forces me onto my back, and snatches his pillow from my arms. Cold air splays across my stomach as he thrusts the pillow across the room. Lamp light gleams in his dark eyes. Shaking fingers pull through my hair and grip. "Stop."

Sneering, I let my lip curl. "Why should I? Don't tell me you prefer the pretty lies? You're cruel." I'm cruel. "You're weak." I'm weak. "You're nothing." I'm…

Hovering over me, trembling with barely restrained fury, he looks deadly and beautiful. Like a Grim Reaper. An angel of death. The salvation and retribution I've been yearning for so long.

"Kill me," I beg.

The harrowing anger in his eyes shatters.

"Please." Slowly, I lift my arms, let my fingertips skim his rough cheeks.

Is it too much to hope for nothingness in the moments beyond life? After all, people like me don't wind up in anything close to Heaven. All I want now is an eternal, dreamless sleep.

"Please…" I croak. Hot tears pour down my cheeks, sticking in my hair and the shells of my ears. "Please. I'll never be good enough for you, or anyone. Not—" My sore throat closes. "—not anymore." Soundlessly, while darkness creeps up on me, I mouth please again.

As my vision begins to fade and the sheer weariness congealing in me takes hold, droplets splash onto my forehead, then gentle lips press deep into my skin.

"Sleep, princess." The tension in Rowan's anguished eyes stretches so unbearably thin. "Sleep."

I do as the angel commands.