C. Redwine - Deception

“He taught us only to be good at killing people, Rachel. That’s all we knew. We hunted humans like you hunt animals. Learned their weaknesses and how to exploit them. How to extract every possible ounce of pain if we needed information from them.”

He falls silent, and the cords on his neck stand out. I reach across the blanket and cover his hands with mine. “You can’t help who gave birth to you. You can’t blame yourself for what he taught you, or what he expected from you.”

He looks at me. “No, I can’t. And I don’t. But that doesn’t make the memories easier to face. Every time I killed, it took another piece of me until I was afraid I’d have nothing left. I didn’t take joy or pride in it like he did. And he saw that in me. He called it cowardice.”

My lip curls. “He’s a fool. I call it courage.”

He turns his hands over and laces his fingers through mine. “Your father called it courage, too. I’d started to stand up to my father. Started killing people quickly even when he wanted them tortured. Started refusing to search for highwaymen or trackers to kill unless they were actually threatening the village.”

“And he punished you?”

“He punished Willow. He gave her the duties he’d formerly given to me. He expected her to stalk and hunt and torture and glory in it. And she . . .”

“She did,” I say, because I can see it’s true. Willow wouldn’t back down, especially if she thought that by doing what was expected of her she could somehow save her brother pain.

“She did.” His eyes are steady as he looks at me. “And then we captured Jared, and I refused to kill him. I knocked my father unconscious and took Jared to the leaders so they could detain him while we tried to decide if he was a legitimate threat. And Jared was . . . kind.” His hands squeeze mine. “He was kind, Rachel. He didn’t see Willow and me as monsters like the rest of the village did. He treated us with respect, and my father couldn’t stand it.”

I know what’s coming, and a slick, icy dread fills my stomach.

“He turned Willow loose. Ordered her to kill Jared, and make it truly awful, or I would pay the price.” He pauses and then says quietly, “And so I killed my father.”

The breath I don’t realize I’m holding explodes from me in a rush. I’d thought he was going to tell me he killed my father to spare Willow. But instead, he’d sacrificed another piece of himself to save both his sister and a man he barely knew.

“Quinn . . .”

“I didn’t tell you that so you could feel sorry for me. I told you because I know what it’s like to make choices that leave you with nothing. I know how it feels to be so broken you think nothing will ever make it right.”

He leans forward. “Rachel, I know the pain scares you. It should, because healing is so much harder than being hurt in the first place. But you will never get better until you stop running and start looking things in the eye. Until you give the things that hurt you the label they deserve, feel the way they make you feel, and then let the pieces slowly settle until you can breathe again.”

I shiver beneath the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Start small. Pick up one piece of it, look it in the eye, and let yourself feel it. You won’t break, Rachel. You’ll heal.”

I shake my head. There’s so much. Where do I start?

He rubs his fingers lightly across my knuckles, and waits until I meet his eyes. “Sylph is dead, Rachel. She’s gone. You didn’t get enough time with her, and that isn’t fair. You loved her, and now she’s gone.”

My body trembles as his words slam against the silence within me, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in their wake. “No,” I say, as though by protesting, I can push the truth away from me.

“Yes. This is true, and you won’t be whole again until you learn how to live with the truth, even when it hurts. Sylph is dead.”

Grief surges out of the silence, hot and sharp and utterly devastating. It wraps around my chest, crushes the air from my lungs, and sinks into every inch of me. I open my mouth to give voice to the horrible keening locked deep inside of me, but the air won’t come. I’m choking on the memories. On the way her eyes lit up over every little thing. On the smile she gave to everyone else and the smile she reserved just for me.

“ Oh .” Air rushes past my lips, and the grief becomes a creature of terrible strength determined to turn me inside out as tears pour down my face, and I sob her name.

His arms wrap around me as I cry and cry and cry. He doesn’t tell me it’s okay. He doesn’t try to calm me down. He just holds me and lets me cry.

When the knife-sharp edge of the grief eases into a dull ache, I find I can touch Sylph’s face in my memory without falling to pieces. It hurts, and maybe it always will, but by letting what she meant to me fill me up and spill me over, I find that a few of my ragged edges are a little smoother. A little less scary.

Quinn pats my back, and I realize I’m nearly in his lap with my face pressed to his chest, and I have no idea how long I’ve been there. I push away and wiggle back to the top of the cot, and someone clears his throat in the doorway. We glance over and Logan is there, looking like he did when he stood on the Claiming stage beside me, forced to give permission for another man to take me as his wife.

I open my mouth to explain, but he doesn’t even look at me as he says, “Quinn, a word please?” and then walks out of the room.

Icross the hall, yank open a door, and barely contain myself while Quinn slowly walks in. Slamming the door shut behind him, I stalk to the other side of the room, where I have a better chance of keeping my fists off of him. I’m still reeling from the shock of learning who I really am, still wondering which of the people I’d come to trust and love knew the truth about me and which were in the dark, and I’m in no mood to keep my temper.

“Logan, that wasn’t what it looked like,” he says, but his voice is unsteady. Vulnerable. Very un-Quinn.

I think he’s lying.

I think the fascination he’s had with Rachel from the moment he laid eyes on her in the Wasteland has grown until . . . until what? Until he took advantage of her in her current state of distress? Distress she won’t even talk to me about?

Maybe he didn’t take advantage. Maybe she chose to go to him because somehow she can no longer talk to me.

I turn to face him. “I don’t know how to feel about you right now.”

His brow rises, but he remains quiet.

“On the one hand, I’m incredibly grateful to you for saving Rachel’s life. It almost cost you your own. I don’t know how to repay that.” I realize I’m advancing on him, and make myself stop halfway across the room. “On the other hand, I want to kill you.”

“You’re welcome. And please don’t.”

I wheel toward the closest wall and drive my fist into it. “How could you?”

“As I said before, it wasn’t what it looked like.” His voice is stronger now.

“She was in your lap. Your arms were around her.” Which is closer than I’ve been to her in days.

“How long were you standing there?” he asks.

“Long enough.”

He sounds like he’s coming closer. Which is a truly, spectacularly bad idea. I don’t care if he’s an expert in self-defense. I will destroy him.

“Logan, how long?”

“I don’t know. Twenty seconds? Thirty? Long enough.” I turn to face him, and vaguely realize blood is dripping from my knuckles. “I thought you had honor, Quinn.”

He looks like I’ve struck him. I don’t give him time to respond.