Page 117 of Last of Her Name
“Still,” he adds softly, “there were times I wished shewerereal, times when you’d burst out laughing at something she’d said. Because I knew she was a part of you, a part of you I couldn’t see or hear or touch. It was like I only ever knew half of you.”
I lower my face. “I feel like half of me has been ripped away.”
He pauses, then asks cautiously, “Is she … gone?”
“Not exactly. Pol, the Prismata …” I draw a deep breath, meeting his gaze again. “It’sher.”
He frowns, clearly confused. “What?”
I rise and pace, raking my fingers through my hair. “Danica explained it. Remember how I told you that Prismata is alive, and that I can sense its energy stretching all around us? Well, the infamous madness of the Leonovs wasn’t really madness at all, just the effect of being mentally tethered to this enormous consciousness. My family could see and feel this creature no one else saw, so everyone thought they were crazy. Meanwhile, their brains interpreted the Prismata as people—sort of like imaginary friends—because otherwise, their mindswouldbreak. They,we, had no other way to comprehend it. It’s so huge, so strange … it’salien, and it’s always there, whispering and hovering just out of sight.” I stop and face him, spreading my hands. “Clio’s real, Pol, not a figment of my imagination. She was the Prismata all along. This living, ancient being out there in the stars, linked to my mind.”
He studies me, his brow creasing. I half worry that I’ve completely spooked him, and he’ll think I really have lost it. But he just waits, patient as the stars, trying to understand.
“All my life,” I add softly, “I’ve felt this instinct to protect her, and this is why. I wasbornto protect her, or it, whatever it is. So you see, this isn’t just about stopping Volkov or saving the galaxy. I have to do this forher.”
He draws a deep breath. “I only have one question, and I want your most honest answer.”
I nod.
“Is this what youwant, Stace? This isn’t the code talking through you or influencing you? Because if it is, then we’ll find a way to cut it out of you, set you free. I have to know this is your choice.”
I wonder if he realizes he’s touched on the exact question that’s been burning in my mind ever since the Firebird awoke in me. The truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know how long my life has been controlled by the code in my DNA, or what choices were ever truly mine. I’m not even sure who Stacia would be without Clio or the Firebird. Maybe she never truly existed at all, like Clio herself, and was just a mask created to hide the dangerous truth.
“It’s what Ihaveto do, before I can have what I want.”
“And what do you want?”
I sit by him and stare into his eyes.
“You idiot,” I whisper. “Don’t you know?”
Every part of my life till now was a lie—every part but him.
My parents were not my parents. My name was not my name. Nothing I thought was real has lasted. My family and my home and my identity: I’ve lost it all.
All except for Pol.
He has been my constant. In a galaxy where even the stars rearrange themselves and the laws of gravity can be broken, he does not change.
I lean into him, breathing him in. Pol, familiar, steady Pol, who I think will always smell faintly of the vineyard: fresh soil, ripe grapes, leaves damp with rain. He smells of home, and I can’t get enough of it. I raise my hand to his face, my fingers slowly trailing down his cheek. He stares at me with wide and startled eyes.
It stuns me that I can touch him in this way, that doing so is like opening a side of myself that I never knew existed.
I love him.
The thought bursts in me like a supernova, sending scorching particles racing through my body.
For years, I thought he was Clio’s, thatshewas the one who loved him. But it was me all along. Her thoughts were my thoughts. Her dreams were my dreams. I was afraid of my feelings for him, so I projected them into her.
But her Pol wasmyPol all along.
Something releases in my chest, and a flood of need surges through me. Years of suppressed desire flood me with heat, a rushing fire that ignites my every atom.
I turn and press my lips into his, hot and fierce and hungry. He seems surprised by my tenacity but leans into it, returning every touch. My fingers drag at his hair and his shirt, my mind filled with sparks.
My fingers explore him inch by inch, following the veins up his wrist, his forearm. They slide over his bicep, jump to the hollow of his throat. While my fingers are busy, so are his, injecting bolts of lighting into my skin wherever they touch: my neck, my jaw, my temple. His fingers weave into my hair. He pushes it over my shoulder, leans to press his lips to the side of my neck, near where the skin patch still covers the incision Volkov’s scientists made.
My stomach caves with longing, and before I know it, I’m on my knees on the bunk, tilting his face to mine, pushing his hair back. His dark curls tumble, and he shifts, moving closer, his hands gripping my waist as I lean over him. One of my hands finds a ridged horn and grips it, tilting his face to mine. Stars, he’s hard and soft in all the right places, his body yielding to mine, offering himself for my taking.