Page 92 of Caging Darling

Still not used to it, then.

“Hello,” he says, his green eyes burning through me as he examines my face. There’s a slight eagerness in the way the corners of his eyes lift. Like he’s actually glad to see me. Like he thinks there’s the possibility of anything good between us. Like he didn’t try to kill me the last time I saw him. Like I didn’t take his hand.

Like I wouldn’t have gladly forgotten all of that if he’d simply come for me.

“Won’t the Nomad kill you or something for breaking into his room?” I ask.

“You sound so hopeful,” he says, stroking his hook contemplatively.

I can’t help myself. My gaze follows the course of his fingertips, and I examine the hook more thoroughly, taking note of its glassy sheen, wondering what it’s made of.

He flicks it at me, gently scraping it down my nose, with just enough pressure so that it doesn’t hurt, just tickles.

I swat him away. “Looks as if it would shatter easily.”

He smirks. “Initially, when the Nomad had one of his expert forgers craft it for me from some mineral they called aether, I thought the same thing. Does that mean our thoughts are aligned for once?”

“I can think of a number of occasions we’ve been thinking the same thing.” The words come out of my mouth without my permission, and Astor’s brow rises in question.

And now I’m wondering if he’s remembering that night in the crow’s nest of his ship. The night he would have kissed me had I not pulled away.

Yet another moment where I can’t help but think my life would be different now if it weren’t for my compulsive hesitation.

Thinking of the crow’s nest has me wondering where his ship is. I feel like I would have noticed it if it were docked with the other ships in the Gathers. What if something’s happened?

“Charlie?” I ask, my chest tightening.

“Off on an excursion for the Nomad,” says Astor. “Along with Maddox and the others.” He must glimpse my relief in the way I exhale deeply, because he says, “Charlie will be glad to see you when she gets back. It’s been—she’s been worried.”

He blinks, and my throat tightens.

“Are you—” Astor reaches out with his hook, pulling the blanket away from my body. “Did he hurt you?”

I practically choke, slinking away from him. I jolt backward on the floor, hugging the blanket tighter. Realizing how childish I must look, I shed it and stand, my hands shaking. Slowly, Astorpushes himself off of his crouching position until he’s looming over me, though I keep a safe distance between us.

“Did Peter hurt me?” I laugh, and it’s the wry sort. It’s much too funny, because how am I to describe that with all Peter has done to crush me, to rip apart my family, that none of it hurts quite the same as Astor’s betrayal?

John’s death hurts. Aches. But I hate Peter for what he did. He’s at least afforded me that comfort.

I’m afforded no such comfort with Astor. The man who pretended to be my friend. The man who genuinely liked me, cared for my safety and growth, then decided I wasn’t worth sacrificing for in the end. Wasn’t even worth looking for.

“How dare you,” I say.

Astor cocks his head in question.

I take a sharp inhale because it’s the only thing keeping me from bursting into tears. Not the sad sort, the rage, crazed sort. “How dare you waltz in here and interrogate me about whether Peter hurt me?”

Astor’s face hardens. “Did he?”

My exhale should be telling. I wrap my arms around myself. “You tell me, Astor. What do you think? It’s been two years. Do you think Peter hurt me?”

There’s sorrow in Astor’s eyes, but he misunderstands my meaning. What I mean is that Peter has hurt me, that Astor should have known that from what he witnessed in the Carlisles’ library annex. Too late, I realize my bargain hasn’t allowed me to say it in the tone I meant. When I go back over the words, I realize they come out defensive, never painting Peter in an ill light.

I sound lovesick, brainwashed.

Astor’s jaw ticks. He swallows. “Do you love him?”

“Of course I do.” The words come out before I can stop them.

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