Page 48 of Feathers From the Sky

“You’re too comfortable,” he says, standing and shaking out his limbs. “You’ll translate this or I’ll start giving out your blood as a gift. There’s plenty who will swear to me just tosmellyou.”

I stare after him as he walks toward the door to my cell. It’s clear we’re done for the day, but what he’s asking me to do is impossible.

“Well, when you do that and Idie, that’s on you. If I’m dead, you won’t be able to figure out shit.”

“You think I’ll let you die, Gwyn?” He turns, running his fingers through his long hair before shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing jeans today, and they’re so tight on those muscled thighs, I’m shocked he’s able to even get his hands in his pockets. “Iwilllet them drink if it gets them to swear to me, but I won’t let them kill you. I’ll protect what’s mine.”

I brace myself for impact before I speak. Swallowing, the weight of what I’m about to say is heavy on my tongue. I know exactly what I’m doing. “Everyone you swear to protect ends up dead, though, don’t they?”

He bares his teeth at me, and something like a hiss comes up his throat. His hands are out of his pockets now, and he’s almost panting. His rage is sweltering, and I don’t care. I turn, reaching beneath my mattress.

When I spin around, he’s right there, his breath hot on my neck like he’s about to bite me. But I shove my secret weapon into his hands.

“You’re clearly not very good at protecting people,” I sneer as he looks down at Remy’s journal in his hands. “Guess his blood is on your hands, isn’t it, Roman?”

16

ROMAN

“Where did you get this?”

“Found it.” This hateful Gwyn isn’t one I recognize, her twisted smile a taunt. I grab her by her silky hair, still wet from the shower, tilting her head to the side as I trace my fangs on the delicate skin of her neck. She is warm and slightly damp from the shower, and she feels so goddamn alive. Her pounding heart is a metronome beat, counting the moments since my brother last drew breath. How many times has my own heart beat, how many times have my lungs expanded since he stopped breathing? We both stand here furious and hot-blooded, while he lies dead somewhere, bled out and cold. I need to find his killer, and I need to find his body. Maybe his journal could help.

“Tell me where you found it.”

“Under the mattress.” Her skin is flushed, hot from the shower and her fury, and I have never been more tempted to bite her than I am now. “Your brother probably did some bad shit based on what he wrote in there. Got himself into trouble. My dad probably had nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t you fucking do that.” I don’t know why I’m so affected by her words. Shit, Margot has told me as much for the last few months. But it’s worse coming from her. Gwyn isn’t like this; she believes the best in people. Gwyn doesn’t make snap judgments like that. She wouldn’t read Remy’s journal and automatically assume the worst.

“Do what?” Her hands push against my shoulders, trying to shove me away from her.

“Change who you are to hurt me. It’s not like you.”

She laughs, and it’s unnerving. Her tongue flicks out against her cupid’s bow, clearly debating speaking, before her body shifts, weight on one foot as she prepares to give me attitude. “You don’t even know me. You think you do because you watched me for a few months, but you have no idea, Roman. You’ve made me into this. I’ve done nothing wrong, and you’re making me solve a murder I had nothing to do with.” She shoves at me again, and I grab her wrists. “What do I get out of this?” She’s shouting as she tries to tug her arms away. “Nothing but my death. So, yeah, maybe I do want to hurt you.” She stills, wide brown eyes staring up at me with nothing but undiluted hate. “Maybe you deserve it.”

I release her, pushing her back onto the bed before I turn and walk away. Holding Remy’s journal like a lifeline, I hope it might guide me somehow, even if it means I have to relive what I did to him from his perspective. I run a hand through my hair before pocketing the small book. Now that she’s read it, she knows exactly how I’ve failed my little brother, and even if she’s showing me her rage about her predicament, her last words tell me how little she thinks of me.

I do deserve to hurt over what I’ve done.

“You’re right. All you’re getting is death, but I plan on giving it to you sweet.” I hear her move as if she flinched. “It’s true I was the reason for his banishment, and I regret it each day. If hurling hate at me makes you feel better, sweetheart, give it to me. But not him.” I face her, crossing my arms over my chest, and watch her slink back onto the bed. She puts her back against the wall, taking up as little space as possible. I fleetingly wonder if she’s always done that—made herself smaller to avoid conflict. I decide I don’t care. “If you think I don’t know you, Gwyn, you’re wrong. I know the songs you hum in the shower, the sounds you make when you come. Your fears, your dreams. All of those little parts of yourself you share with others and all the private things you don’t. I own them, just as I own you. And I know you don’t think Remy is the sum of what you read.”

She pulls her legs up, wrapping her arms around them as she glares up at me. Even in such a submissive pose, defiance limns her features. Her jaw is tight, her pouty lips are sealed shut, and she maintains eye contact with me, almost daring me to look away first.

“You don’t think that about Remy, do you?”

She tucks her chin in, fighting my compulsion, but she doesn’t break her stare. Her warm brown eyes contradict so thoroughly with her cold expression, but I can’t look away. Finally, she sighs, and her gaze softens, caramel melting on a scoop of ice cream.

“No. I don’t think that.” Velvet-smooth, her words glaze over my irritation. I can’t stand another good person thinking my brother was a lost cause.

“Good, now that—”

“And I don’t think it was your fault, either. Remy wasn’t being fair when—”

“Don’t.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to hear it.” My hand is on the doorknob, about to walk out of the room. I don’t need her feeding me lies to assuage my guilt and endear her to me. With Remy, I need her to believe he was good, need her to believe he’s worth figuring out what happened to him. Even if it was her father’s doing. As far as I’m concerned, if all she feels for me is hate, we’re better off. It’s easier that way.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You don’t deserve to hurt. You’re a good person, Roman—”

That sets me off, and I’m across the room in an instant. Bending over her, I grab her chin in my hand so she’s looking directly into my eyes as I speak to her. It is imperative she understands this, so she stops tempting me into the belief she might be right.

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