Page 87 of Feathers From the Sky

When the light is bright enough to show me my own hunched silhouette spreading long and horizontal on the wall, keys jingle as the cell beside mine is opened. I should’ve known Emile would punish Roman. Even so, it surprises me. Though he's one of just a few people stronger than him, Roman's blood sworns would have defended him, right? And now he’s here, so many hours later? What has he been doing this whole time?

It doesn't matter. Silver bars will keep me stuck, but they’ll also keep me safe. They’ll keep me distant. They'll keep me from getting any wild ideas. There’s no point in interacting with him. Not after what he said to me.

There is no fight, no scuffle, no attempt to overpower whoever escorted him down here. No words are exchanged as footsteps move into the cell beside me. I suspect he's limping, and the scent of his blood has only grown. The silence is broken by the clang of bars swinging shut and the notching of a key in a lock. Neither of us speaks as one set of footsteps leaves, and I am ushered once more into unending night.

It’s a lot harder to meditate when Roman’s breaths and beating heart resound in my ears. When I begin to hear his words on repeat, all hope of peace is gone.

How could I, sweetheart?

I’d been so profoundly foolish to think he could truly care for me, to thinkanyonecould want me. Fuck, I don’t even like myself most of the time, and yet my wretched heart thought someone else might? Not just someone, but Roman Sauveterre. The man who kidnapped me, who stands for everything I should be against. Who has shown little remorse for what he's done and how he's treated me thus far.

"Gwyn?" he whispers, his voice scratchy. I ignore him. There is no room for softness from him anymore. There can't be. "You alright?"

"Just peachy," I reply, kicking myself for bothering to answer him. I bite down on my lip to punish myself for it. I can't let Roman back in. Not now. I won’t allow myself to think about how he held me when I'd cried in his arms. I can't think about how he'd pulled me from death's grip with his mouth full of blood as his lips pressed to mine. I refuse to entertain the indignation and sorrow beneath his harsh exterior when he'd learned of my own suicidal thoughts. And yet, fighting away the thoughts has allowed me to come to a painful realization.

It's not that he didn't care. He did. Roman is capable of good; that much I know is true. But he's not capable of caringenough, and that's not his fault. The problem lies in me. The problemisme. I am no fucking good, and he's far more astute than I ever gave him credit for if he knew it all along.

"I didn't mean it."

I say nothing. Of course he meant it. Everyone always has. I don't blame them. Why would someone want to deal with my issues when it is so much simpler not to? It would be so much easier if I didn't deal with them either. The urge is sometimes overwhelming. I'd been fighting the thoughts away, pushing myself after each new distraction, but beneath it all, it waits. The desire to not feel a thing looms far below, like a leviathan—hungry and vicious. If I venture too deep, I won't make it back to shore.

"Gwyn." There's a sound like a snake slithering over dry leaves as he slides closer to the bars. "I was angry and confused, so I said that shit to hurt you. To push you away. I never fucking meant it."

I sigh, leaning my head against the wall. "It's not like it matters now. Why are you here? If you're looking to atone, find forgiveness elsewhere." I'm the last person he should seek that from.

"Come here. Let me...let me touch you."

I can't do this. I can't do any of this. If I listen to him, he'll just break my heart all over again. "Roman, please just leave me alone. I-I would like some quiet before my death."

"You're not dying," he snaps. "I'm not going to let that happen."

Try as I might, in the pitch black I struggle to imagine his fierce expression. The downward tilt of his soft mouth. Narrowed eyes and crossed arms and a heart bigger than he thinks he has. Just not quite big enough. I won't see this Roman ever again, and it's the first thing that's made me want to cry. I don't, though, turning again so my back is to the wall. Breathing deeply, I can scent him far too well. I don't smell mint on him, and I wonder if there's a trace of it on his tongue. Though his woodsy deodorant is doing the best it can, sweat and blood are overwhelming. The blood on his body is not too old, from what I can tell, but the thought of tasting him one more time makes me consider going over to him.

"What's your plan then, Roman? You seem just as trapped as I do."

"I'll pretend I'm talking sense into whoever comes down for you, get the keys, and give them to you. You let yourself out, then you either let me out to help you get away, or you leave me here. It's up to you. If you let me out, I will do whatever needs to be done to get you free of this place."

"I'm not even going to touch on your plan to just 'get the keys,' and instead ask why wouldn't you just let yourself out first?"

"Well, it’s all I could think of to get around the command. And honestly, that's pushing it. I might not even be able to hand them to you."

My heart threatens to beat out of my chest. "The command? What command? Is your father already here?"

"No, but he's landing soon." The way Roman's voice drops when he continues makes me think he's ashamed. "The command isn't from him."

"Who, Roman? Who commanded you?" I demand. I wish I could see him. The cold stone feels awful on my knees as I adjust closer. "Roman?"

"Emile."

Moving as close to the bars as I can without touching them, I look toward where I think his face is. I'm tempted to reach through and cup his chin in my hand. Instead, I whisper, "What did you do?"

"I did what I had to do, sweetheart. He had the upper hand. Margot..."

"What about Margot?"

"The bitch betrayed us. She fucked us over, and I'm sorry."

"She did?" My stomach twists in a knot, picturing the blonde I'd one day consider a friend if things had gone how Roman planned. I feel his hand move closer to my thigh, feel the heat of his body beside mine. I know how disappointed he is, how hurt, how horrified he must feel. He's probably second guessing every decision, every interaction, and my mouth goes dry at the thought. The air in my lungs feels thick as I push it out. "I thought she liked me." I force a laugh, but he doesn't react.

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