Page 44 of Even Angels fall
She sounds so defeated that I almost tell her she can go.
Except my dragon side refuses to let it go. It needs to know who did this to her. It needs to maim, burn, and reduce to ashes whoever did that to her, knowing that it would stay.
Because I can see it. Those marks on her back aren’t a one-time thing. Some of the scars cross each other, and the color of some seems to be rosier.
One could make an error once and not realize she would be scarred for life, but it happened at least two other times, so it means the person who did this did it to purposefully hurt her, and they didn’t even give her proper care after.
She looks at my hand still holding her, and with a defeated sigh, she says, “If you’re not happy with his handiwork, you can tell him yourself in three days.”
I’m frozen where I stand, and I don’t even feel it when my hand slips from her arm.
I don’t even want to hold her back.
Her father did this to her.
Her father did this to her, and I told her I was sending her back to him.
If there was ever a fresh row of scars, they would be my fault.
I don’t want to understand her, but if this is what she’s been through before coming to me, how can I fault her for trying to escape her fate?
26
Angélique
It’s been a day since I left my room for the last time. I’ve seen the sun set and rise through my windows, but I can’t seem to care.
My hand is fully healed, but I almost regret it.
It was easier to hate Elhyor when I had the reminder of what he did etched on my skin and branding my hand. At least I’d have a physical reason to end him.
But instead, all I can think about is the way he looked at me when I left for my room yesterday, like he wanted to burn the world.
I can’t decide if he wanted me to burn with it, but I’ll go with that because I can’t start thinking that he cared enough to get me healed or I will spiral more than I already am.
I can’t start thinking that he cares.
I can only focus on the fact he pinned me to the wall like one would do with postcards six-hundred years ago.
There’s a knock on my door.
“It’s Cassiopé. Can I come in?”
As if I am the one deciding who comes and goes in this room.
I saw the lock Brice had installed on the door yesterday. Unless there’s an ax hiding in this room, there isn’t a chance I can get out on my own.
I still answer with a simple, “Yes,” and go back to looking at Léandre’s gift.
I’d spent my morning looking at the Ariël media key, but I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at. They looked like a bunch of numbers for things like shipments.
I’ve got no clue what they mean.
For someone used to them, they might make sense, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to look for or if anything in there is important.
I’ve been trained as a warrior, a spy, and an assassin—and even that simple thing I managed to screw up—not as a tactician. I know how to fight, but I have no clue what could be important as a strategy, and I feel like all that those files contain are numbers.
The media key is back under my mattress, but I didn’t feel like puttingThe Hunchback of Notre Damethere, too.
