Page 30 of We Are the Match

Helen

My father is shouting with rage.

That is the first thing I hear, above all the rest.

There was a boom above us so loud I cannot hear anything else, and Tommy is half carrying me away from it all.

They are all fleeing, Altea running with iron in the set of her jaw, and fear on Hana’s face, and I want to scream for Paris, Paris, Paris—

Until I look out the window and see the damage and I know:

Paris has started a war.

She joins us as we reach Altea’s marina, Tommy still running, shielding me with his body.

“I am going to kill you,” he tells Paris, but she seems unbothered.

“Her targeting is excellent ,” Paris says a little breathlessly, utterly ignoring Tommy’s threat.

Tommy nearly throws me into the waiting boat, Paris vaulting in after despite her injured hand, and then we are tearing out of the marina.

When I look up, Altea is standing on the cliff above us, looking down. There is a rifle in her hands, and even from here, I can see the look on her face.

Betrayal, after she thought we were building an alliance.

Fury, after I had almost come home.

I put two hands against Paris’s chest and shove as hard as I fucking can. “What—the—fuck”—I punctuate each word with a shove—“was—that—”

She catches my wrists easily, jaw set. “That, Princess,” she says coolly, “was doing what had to be done. If you wanted it, you could have the whole world—or at least all of your father’s empire.”

“I trusted you,” I snarl at her above the roar of the boat. Why does it feel like I am being split in two, when I knew all along I could not trust her? Why, then, does it feel like I am bleeding?

To my surprise, Paris’s face mirrors the pain on mine. “I am—”

Sorry does not make it past her lips, but I could see it hovering there.

“You should know,” she says finally, “that your trust means something. It does.”

We are inches from one another, her hands still closed over my wrists, our lips a breath away from touching.

“Tommy,” I say without drawing back. “Take us somewhere quiet, where Paris and I can talk.”

Fifteen minutes later, he has us docked on the far side of the island, where the coast is rugged but not entirely impassable, and the night is dark and silent.

He climbs out of the boat, stands off to the distance where he can do what he always does: watch over us, and let us have some time.

“Helen,” Paris says, taking my hands in hers again. “Altea had her long-range weapon system trained on your father’s house. On the wing of the mansion where his bedroom is. If she was willing to blow your house off the face of this island, she was never going to be an ally of yours.”

“But—” I sputter. “But you could have told me. You could have given me a chance . Are we partners, Paris, or am I just a plaything?”

She drops my hands, looking stricken. “Do you want us to be more?” she asks cautiously.

And there it is again, the question that always seems to divide us:

What do you want, Helen?

“Was I a fool for thinking we were?” I ask. “Paris. You started a war . You must care about that.”

“And you think you know me, Princess?” she asks.

Paris does not spill secrets like blood. Paris’s jaw is set, and she stares past me at the blackness of the sea, knuckles white as she twists her hands together, careful to avoid her injured finger.

“I do think I know you,” I say. “I think you grieve your sisters every day. I think you are angry at my father for what he did. I think you resent me—and I think you like me.”

Paris stares at me, shocked—and then she crosses the space between us, hooks a hand around the back of my neck, and pulls me into a bruising kiss, her tongue tangling with mine.

When she withdraws, both of us are breathless.

“Paris,” I say against her lips. “Paris, I want more .”

I want us, together, the two of us on the throne, changing the Family forever.

For half a wild moment, I think of bringing Paris to the secret entrance to my family’s home, to climb the stairs together, all the way to my bedroom.

To hold her hand, to feel the cold stone of those ancient steps beneath our feet, to burst into my room like invaders, with secrets no one would ever suspect.

“We need to talk about what happens next,” Paris says. “You and I. This war.”

Because it is that, now.

“He will kill so many,” I say. “We have to stop him, we have to change something—I can talk to him, calm him down, if you can get Altea and her people to flee, maybe to Troy, maybe farther—”

“Stop,” Paris cuts me off. “Helen, stop . Why would we stop this now? Why should we care if it burns, if it weakens your father’s rule and one of your rivals, too?”

But I can see it in her eyes, I can , that she is haunted by what she has done tonight.

“And how are you different?” I snap. “How is this different than my father bombing your home? If this is how you are going to—”

Paris’s hand closes around my throat, her rings cold against my skin, and she is shoving me backward against the side of the boat, making the boat tilt wildly.

Tommy is there before I can even think to call him, dragging her backward, yanking her hands from me. “Enough,” he says sternly.

If it were anyone else, they would be bleeding at my feet.

But it is Paris, my Paris, and Tommy seems to know well enough that she is ... well, mine. And not to be harmed.

“You,” Paris snarls at me, lunging at me even as Tommy holds her firmly. “Do not speak to me of Troy .”

“Easy,” Tommy says, almost as if he is comforting her. “Both of you take a minute, all right?”

Are we bleeding right here on this boat, Paris and I? Bomb after bomb, ripping through our lives? Are we always destined for this violence?

Me in my home, Paris in hers. Caught in the wars of the gods.

“Zarek killed teenagers,” Paris snarls, ignoring Tommy’s low, soothing tone. “Girls I loved . Do not compare me to him, Princess.”

Tears are stinging my eyes. I swipe the back of my hand across them, vanishing them with one motion. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

But what can I say to Paris, after this? She carries them with her every day. I see it on her, all those girls like her, trapped beneath bombs while I survived my grief in luxury.

I can scarcely breathe.

I’m sorry, I want to tell her, but it is not enough. It will never be enough, no matter how long I rule and how well. No one can give Paris back her girls. Paris does not look at me, her face cast mostly in shadow.

And how did you live, Paris? How did you make a way out of the impossible? What secrets do you carry in that closed-off soul, in that singed jacket under your arm? How did you survive when others burned?

“I can make it home from here,” she tells Tommy. She does not look at me as she leaves.

I watch Paris go, her body thin and wiry and appearing so fragile next to Tommy’s broad shoulders. She disappears soon after, the black of her clothes fading into the darkness of the rocky shoreline.

You could have the whole world.

But, oh, Paris.

What if it isn’t just the world I want?