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Killian’s gaze narrows on mine. “Do you know what a Timekeeper is, Shiv?”

“They’re the enemy,” I say, remembering my conversation with Arthur—the man that Killian left for dead in Versailles, the one that confronted me in the library in England.

“Yeah.” He nods, traces the rim of his wine goblet with his index finger. “That’s exactly what they are. The enemy.”

He shoots me a lopsided half grin, and in an instant, I’m up and out of my chair.

“Where are you going?” Killian asks.

But I’m already gone, racing into the dark.

57

By the time Killian finds me by the fountain, I’m shivering from the cold.

Only it’s not entirely due to the weather.

It’s the chill of realizing the colossal mistake that I’ve made.

“Shiv.” Killian places a tentative hand on my arm. “Please, come back inside.”

I lift my gaze to meet his. His eyes are blue liquid, his lips tinged with wine. And with his shock of golden curls falling over his forehead, his prominent nose jutting from beneath a strong brow, and the near brutal line of his jaw, he’s exactly the sort of boy I used to dream about when I watched all those romantic movies that took place in long-ago times.

The dashing, capable, strong-willed though tender-hearted hero who bore little patience for simpering girls trained in the art of landing a husband.

No, this particular hero only had eyes for the equally headstrong girl who rose to every challenge the world threw at her.

Standing before me now, under the glow of a torch, Killian seems perfectly cast for that role.

And yet, right on the heels of that thought, I remember how I once felt the same way about Braxton.

Once felt.

Is it truly over, then—just like that?

Has my heart really turned to stone against him?

Are my feelings for Braxton so easily dismissed just because Killian’s story differed from the one Braxton shared?

After all that we’ve been through, it hardly seems fair. I mean, shouldn’t Braxton at least get a shot at defending himself?

“Shiv,” Killian says, “talk to me, please. What is it you’re thinking—feeling?”

Other than the burn of betrayal, I’m feeling angry. Angry at having been lied to. Angry at myself for being such an easy target. So easily manipulated into believing Braxton and I shared something special—that we were somehow, miraculously, bound and destined to be together.

This energy between us, Braxton once said, calling out the electric charge that always sparks from our nearness.

But did I really feel it?

Or was I so caught up in the moment that I just wanted to feel it, so I convinced myself that I had?

Like Killian, Braxton also referred to our meeting as a miracle. But now I know better—there are no miracles here.

Arthur’s been in charge all along. We are merely what results from the choices he makes.

“Shiv, you’re shaking.” Killian places a hand on my arms, moving them briskly, trying to warm me. “Please, be sensible and come back inside.”

But I stay rooted in place—as immune to his touch as I am to his attempt to talk sense.