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Because he hadn’t told her. He’d kept this a secret from her, and now she was blindsided by it. Blindsided and heartbroken.

“What if the roles were reversed, Darien?” she squeezed out, her question broken apart by splintered breaths. “How would you feel? How would you feel if I forfeited my life—”

“I’d be pissed,” he snapped. “I’d be fucking livid.”

“Right. And I’m pissed.” Tears washed the room as if with rain. “I’m livid. And I don’t want to talk to you right now, I don’t want to see you.” She made to leave the room, but turned on a heel to face him again, more words exploding out in the heat of the moment. “Why would you do that?” she demanded. “Why? No one in their right mind would do that, Darien—just trade their life away like they don’t care about themselves at all! What about Ivy?” She waved an angry hand at the sister who looked torn between rage and despair—torn between staying in the room or stomping out. “What about the others? Your family?” She pointed downstairs—where she was certain multiple people were listening, the sudden silence suggesting she was right. “What about them?”

“I did what I felt was right in the moment—what I felt like I wanted.”

“Killing yourself, basically,” she said flatly. “For me?” She gestured to herself in a what-am-I-worth gesture, warm tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I’ve struggled with this shit my whole life, Loren—about feeling worthy, about not knowing if I want to be dead or alive. And if I was going to lose you—not in the sense of breaking up, okay? I’m not talking about that, I wouldn’t put a gun in my mouth over that like some psycho—”

Ivy abruptly left the room, stunting Darien’s speech. “Ivy!” he called, but she didn’t come back.

Darien swore under his breath. Continued, “If I was going to lose you—the only shred of happiness the universe has given me since my mom died—I wasn’t going to live with that. I can’t. Call me weak, but I can’t.”

Loren swallowed. Forced herself to soften her tone—trying desperately to see this from his perspective. But she was so lost in the feeling of her heart being ripped out of her chest, that it took everything in her power not to yell and scream her lungs out. “Darien—”

“You want to know what the Widow told me?” he said suddenly, his throat shifting with a swallow. “Do you want to know?”

She merely waited. Crossed her arms over her chest.

“The Widow told me…” Darien had to pause to breathe, his good hand curling into a fist at his side. “Fuck.” He glared at the wall.

Her blood ran cold. Rarely had she ever seen Darien like this. “Darien?” she prodded, the question a hollow whisper.

“The Widow told me…,” he began again, his eyes snapping back to her face, “that you wouldn’t make it past the age of twenty-one.”

Loren felt her heart stop dead in her chest. Felt the blood leave her head, rushing down to her feet. She had never been more aware of her pulse than she was in that moment—her cursed, mortal heartbeat.

“How old are you, Loren?” Darien looked like someone had punched him, looked like he didn’t have air—looked like he was dying. Exactly how Loren had felt only moments ago, when she’d learned he’d traded his life. Darien’s jaw flexed, eyes shining. “How old are you?” He already knew the answer, but he said again, “How old are you? Tell me.”

“Twenty.” The answer was so breathless, she could barely hear herself.

“Do you know what that means?” His words were strained as he fought the emotions rising inside him, his black lashes dampening with the tears he was holding back. “That means you’re going to die in less than a year. And if I can’t save you—” He looked away, jaw clenching as he focused on breathing. He did not finish his sentence.

And Loren didn’t know what else to say.

Another few seconds passed before Darien spoke. “Hate me all you want. But the decision was—is—mine. I did what I felt was right at the time, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. If you die, Loren—if someone like you, who has such a good heart, just dies at twenty-one, that’s…” He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t have the words. And I also don’t have time right now. We can talk about this when I get back.”

He breezed past her before she had a chance to reply, her hair streaming over her shoulder with his swift departure.

And she wondered if that was what the Pale Man had meant when he’d said the Devil—Darien—would die. Ever since she’d learned of the abhorrent creature’s premonition, she’d vowed to make sure it never came true.

Little had she known that Darien himself had put the gun in his own mouth, and she was powerless to stop him from pulling the trigger.

Roman was heading to the vehicles with the others—aside from Dallas and Max, who were already gone—when a female voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Glad to see you’re okay.”

Roman shut his eyes. Cursed under his breath.

Slowly, he turned around, his stomach twisting with guilt and self-loathing.

His heart stalled at the sight of Shay standing several feet away from him. Her arms were crossed, her back stiffer than a board. Her pretty face was filled with hurt and confusion—an open book so different from the thief he’d met in the Onyx Skull.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Roman bit out, well aware that he had the attention of everyone in the yard.