Page 98 of Sigma

How do I convince him of what could be? That I’m for real, that I see him, that I’m not afraid.

I mean, I am afraid. Of being hurt, of being rejected—more, I’m afraid that I’ve misjudged him, that he was just playing a game, a part, getting what he wanted from me and now intends to do horrible things to me, to my parents.

No, I don’t believe that—I’m afraid of it, but I don’t believe it.

His fear is absolutely understandable, even if only a quarter of what he told me about his past is true. He has nothing upon which to base trust, or belief in love. Whereas I, on the other hand, have grown up surrounded by love. Being loved by Mom and Dad, by Cal despite our sibling squabbles, and by what you might call my extended family, the A1S crew. I also saw love acted out every, in the way Mom and Dad love each other. I’ve grown up seeing them take care of each other, put each other first. I’ve seen them get in fights and say stupid shit they don’t mean, and I’ve seen them apologize and make up; well, I’ve heard themverballymake up and assume—icky—that they make up in ways I don’t want to see or think about.

I’ve seen love, known love. Apollo hasn’t.

Which one of us, therefore, bears the burden of courage?

I do.

It’s not logical of me to assume he would choose or risk for something he’s never seen, felt, or experienced.

What we shared today was not love.

It was…the seeds of love’s potential…maybe.

So, then. Am I going to let his surly, closed-off, man in the iron mask reaction to feeling something so unexpected and so intense scare me off?

You know what? No. I don’t believe I will.

Nice try, Asshole.

I still choose the other guy. I just have to lure him back out from beneath the mask.

19

The Trade

First light. There’s no sleep. No coffee. No breakfast. Just a too-fast-yet-too-slow wait for the darkness to bleed into dawn’s gray. When the first sliver of sun shows on the horizon, we all stir as one.

Sasha stretches.

Valentine cracks his knuckles.

I look at my husband. “Call him.”

A nod. He touches a previous call, sets the device on speaker. It rings a few times.

“Valentine Roth.” The voice is cultured, with a distinct but elegant Greek accent. “And Mrs. Roth, I presume.”

“We want our daughter back, Apollo.” Valentine’s voice is carefully modulated.

“I’ll bet you do.” A pause. “Say hello, darling.”

“Daddy?” A slight crack, but her voice remains strong. “Mama?”

“We’re here, honey,” I whisper, my voice ragged and shaking. “We’re here.”

“What do youwant, Apollo?” Valentine says.

“Well, I was rather hoping you’d be foolish enough to try and take her by force. Would’ve been quite the fireworks show, yes? And my men would have taken care of you for me.”

“Quitposing, Apollo,” I hear Rin snap, in the background.

Odd, it doesn’t sound like the way a prisoner would speak to her captor.