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When he opens his eyes and his gaze catches on mine, it all clicks into place. The boy I saw in the vision when I held that timepiece—the happy, laughing young boy with flashing blue eyes—it was Braxton.

A much younger version of Braxton, but Braxton all the same.

And that’s when I remember the man’s surprise when I said Braxton’s name. The look of shock on his face—the unmistakable shake in his voice when he asked:What did you say?

“So you met my father.” Braxton’s voice is hoarse, the words so choked he needs a moment to compose himself. “I used to play with that watch when I was a kid,” he says, his thoughts, like his gaze, traveling back to a time long before this. “He promised one day it would be mine. But that day never came.”

There’s a tightening in my chest, a searing pain at the back of my throat, as my mind whirls with the unbelievable, regrettable truth.

I met Braxton’s dad, and—

And I left him injured, sliced his wrist, shoved a blade deep into his knee, then stole the watch and left him to bleed.

“You’re—you’re not from this timeline,” I gasp. Considering all the things I could’ve said—should’ve said—it strikes me as odd that I’d lead with this. But I guess it feels safer to put the focus on him until I can find a way to voice the apology I desperately owe him.

“No.” Braxton shakes his head. “I’m not. Now you know.”

Then, remembering something Killian said, I ask, “Is Braxton your real name?”

He smiles softly, which is something I didn’t expect. And I’m glad to know he’s still capable of that.

“It is now,” he says. “Though I started as James. Braxton was my surname, and Huntley was my mother’s maiden name. Choosing to go by those two surnames is my way of honoring my parents and ensuring I never forget where, when, and whom I came from.”

It makes sense. But then I remember the vision I saw in Versailles—the boy who looked a lot like Braxton—and yet, the timing just doesn’t add up, and I tell him as much.

“Must’ve been a distant relation,” he says. “I come from a long line of Timekeepers, and blue eyes and a thick mane of brown hair are family trademarks.”

I exhale a ragged breath, feeling terrible for all the times I doubted him—for all the lies we told each other, when all along, we’re the same. Two Timekeepers living at Gray Wolf, tasked with doing a job that goes against everything our ancestors stood for.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come clean,” he says. “I guess I needed to be sure it was safe—needed to determine just how loyal you were to Arthur.”

“Apparently not as loyal as I thought.” I fix my gaze on Braxton’s and add, “I brought back the pocket watch, and I didn’t turn it in.”

“You still have it?” Braxton’s eyes widen with the faintest glimmer of hope.

I nod. “But Braxton, I…” I close my eyes, blow out a breath, then force myself to start again. “I’m afraid I…”

The words are all lined up, and though my mouth falls open, nothing comes out.

How can I possibly tell him what I did—the bloody, injured state I left his father in?

And yet, I know there’s no choice. It’s our lies that got us both here, and the fresh start I’ve longed for starts now, with me. So, I swallow hard and try again.

“But in order to get it,” I say, dreading the words still to come but continuing anyway. “I hurt him. I used the skills you taught me, along with a few I made up on the fly. But I didn’t know he was your dad. I didn’t even know I was a Timekeeper. So, I—” The words are coming too fast, but before I can finish, Braxton holds up a hand.

“But you left him alive?” There’s a fresh trail of blood sliding along the curve of his neck, and when I start to press the washcloth to it, Braxton guides my hand back to my side.

“Yes,” I tell him. “His injuries weren’t fatal, but still…” I sigh, haunted by the memory of his dad staggering backward, faltering to the ground.

“But you didn’t kill him.” He grinds out the words. “Wish I could say the same about your dad.”

I reach for his arm, my fingers pressing against the thin muslin of his shirt, insisting he look at me or, failing that, at least agree to hear me. “You have to stop,” I say, hoping he’ll grasp the urgency in my words. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. I saw the whole thing. I know it was Killian who plunged that blade into my dad’s heart.”

Of course, the moment I say it, my mind fills with that horrible vision, so I turn my focus to the washcloth, when Braxton’s surprisingly cold fingers lock on my wrist.

“Tasha,” he says, his voice gone as weak as his grip. “As much as I dread telling you this, itismy fault. I was in that necropolis. And I did nothing to stop it. Didn’t even step in to help.”

I remember the mumbled words from his nightmares:I didn’t… I should’ve…Merde…and I know all this time he’s been dreaming of my dad and the guilt he carries for the part that he played.