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And too late.

I haven’t had a reason to breathe for years, and I sure as fuck haven’t so much as mentioned my father to anyone else since…that day. But there’s something about her I can’t resist. Something that makes me want to strangle anyone that breathes near her. And it’s something more than wanting to strip her down and throw her on my bed, ass in the air, and make her scream my name and claw the sheets while I devour her from behind—though that too.

I see the way she looks at me, hear her heart fighting in her chest. And all that sweet talk, every swear word that rolls off her tempting little tongue…I know she’d want me to do all the things to her that I’ve imagined. And that’s the problem. I can’t get her out of my head. And I hate it. She destroys me, like a fucking tumor taking over my heart.

I spend too many hours watching her sleep and picturing myself kissing away her tiny tears and holding her through the nightmares. And worst of all, I wonder what it would be like if she cared about me, if she craved my company, my arms. And if it wasn’t a lie. But she can’t know what she does to me, the obsession she’s become. It has to stay in my head with all the other shit I have to hide.

It’s simple. I stick with the triggers, and I force her to figure it out. Shewillobey me—I own her, every impeccable inch.

And I fight this. I don’t let her in, don’t let her knowshe’s the one who ownsme. I push her away, make her hate me more—keeping my distance, pissing her off…and letting whatever’s left of my conscience go black to match what’s inside.

So I’ve got issues.

But I’d spend a million lifetimes fighting for her, making her mine over and over—if it wouldn’t ruin us both.

I’m hanging on her every breath when she works my wet shirt into her fist, pulling it to her chest. “Don’t you understand yet?” she says.

I can’t look at her again. I might do something I’ll regret. Something like I almost did last night while holding her against the wall, her face flushed and heated, lips red.

I feel her eyes on me as she tightens her grip on my shirt. “I’m uncrushable.”

Maybe so, little Never, but I won’t let a single fucker touch you and find out.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

EVER

Over six weeks without coffee, without looking in a mirror. I haven’t seen the scar across my throat, marking my arrival in Sonnet, or the ones on my neck and back, the blitzer’s final lashing before freedom. What would I see if I did have a mirror? Rosy nose and cheeks from the constant cold? A stranger peering back at me, my indigo eyes no longer mine? Is this foreign feeling that lurks beneath my skin and seeps out my pores visible on my face, coating my skin with a mask that others mistake for me?

Eli refuses to rescue Kelter and is even less willing to turn me over in exchange for him. He won’t let me go—not when Ihaven’t pulled magic like he wants. He carried me all the way back to the castle from the woods, his protective arms never tiring, walked me straight into his five-walled bedroom and set my wet body on his bed.You’ll sleep here, he said,where no one can get to you but me, then plucked the underwear from my hand and pocketed it. He gave me a dry shirt and a pair of his pants and assured me nobody else had a lock stone for his room, that I was safe. I looked at him for a long time, so long that I could see panic multiplying in his eyes with every passing second, then he turned away. I changed out of my wet clothes while he stared at the dark wall.

Every night this past week, he sat against his locked bedroom door, flipping his lucky stone and guarding, like in the black room. On the fourth night, I lay awake, waiting, eyes open only a sliver. I curled my toes to keep my feet from bouncing. A single light stone in the far corner granted a dim glow to the room. Two hours of silence passed, and he hadn’t so much as yawned, but his eyes remained open…and on me. I made sure not to move, letting him think I had fallen asleep.

Are you going to stare at me all night?he asked.

Damn. How could he tell?I’m waiting to see what you do with my underwear, I admitted. He stood up and left the room, slamming the door behind him. His body smacked into it a second later, followed by a sliding sound over the stone, and I could almost see him through the door—sitting in the hallway, guarding grumpily and reaching for his pocket.

But most nights he played his drums through the late hours, loose and free, the words to his songs rocking me to sleep and the frenzied beat working its way into my dreams. Every morning, he left me locked safely inside, fast asleep and sinking deep into his giant bed with black pillows and blankets around me like a nest. I’ve never slept in anything this nice before—iteven has a sheet. And the whole thing smells like his blanket. Like him.

Then I woke up to a bucket of soapy water, fresh clothes and a pile of ten bars of different flavors to choose from. And a note. Always a note. I might, maybe, possibly think he’s trying to be nice—not simply keep me alive.

But despite the new comforts, he took me out to the clearing in the evenings, trying new tactics to trigger my supposed ability to take magic from plants. Each night ended in my failure to make anything happen—and his heavy sighs and stomping boots.

He’s been irritable since I was let go. I’m not sure what he said to him, but Sypher won’t even glance at me and has a scared look on his face when Eli walks me down the hallway, through the main room and out the hatchway to the clearing each evening. Sypher spends his time throwing knives while Milo keeps himself occupied by lying on the castle floor and staring at the unfinished ceiling for hours—except the days that he paces in infinite circles, rubbing his hands together and murmuring about his sisters.

Kaleida comes by every day and tells me stories about Sonnet and Vaile from before the Separation, always harping on the flow and balance of magic and incorporating something about the gods to sway my disbelieving mind. She shares her predictions for the gifts each of them will receive and who she thinks will link with who, and I listen, whether I want to or not, sitting with her in the clearing before facing my triggers. She seems harmless, even nice, but that’s not enough to thaw a hint of trust in me.

I spent the week moody, off-kilter from the unexplained bed and piles of bars, and worried about Kelter. I tried to ignore the rising rage every time I thought of how Eli didn’t bother to tell me about him being offered as a reward for my capture. That’s probably what Sola meant bydoesn’t she know?

They all knew.

The hours we spend together and the luxury of a bed don’t change the reality that I’m a prisoner.

I’ve started a new collection of notes in Eli’s bedroom, a messy stack on his nightstand. I stare at the latest addition atop the change of clothes and pile of bars on the end of the bed. Not once have I had it in me not to read it. Today is no exception.

Never,