Page 107 of Wings of Lies
“I do not want your moon. I do not want your slivers. I wantnothingfrom you. In one moment, you trick me with your sweet little words and actions, then the next, you call me names and let Brock abuse me. My guardian?” I scoffed. “We may have a bond, but you are no guardian.”
His face paled, and I saw and felt a split second of guilt and horror wedge between the indifferent mask he was trying so hard to put back on.
I tried to wrench out of his grip and away from the feelings that had infiltrated my mind at his touch. He soothed something in me, something I thought only my mom could do. But his touch was a lie. Everything was.
“You’d think a guardian would be someone who risked everything to keep the other person safe. Everything.” I spat. “If anyone was ever my guardian, it was my mom.” An ache traveled up my throat, and damn it, I didn’t want to cry in front of him. “But someone took that from me. And now you’re taking the rest.” This time, when I yanked on my arms, he let me go. “Your apologies are worthless when you are in control of my freedom or my death.”
His chin erupted in a deep red light, and his lips flattened.
“My queen wants you. I am loyal to her.”
I took in the twitch in his eye, the red glow beneath his chin, avoiding his plush pink lips. “Why? Why are you loyal? What could she possibly give you? Is it just because she’s your mom?”
The exuding red light flashed off for a moment as agony tore into his eyes and through me.
Did the red light somehow affect our bond? Was that why I only got blips of his emotions at random times?
“She’s not my mom,” he said, jaw fluttering as he gripped his sword so tightly I thought his knuckles might pop out. But the unending pain and guilt making his eyes glassy vanished as his scar illuminated. “I am loyal to my queen.”
“So, you’re blindly loyal?”
“No!”
“Then what? Does she have your mom?” Because the pain and guilt I could taste coming off him was a lot like how Oliver was talking about his sister.
“No, she doesn’t.” He took a step forward, eyes lit up with softly repressed rage, and I, for once, held my ground.
“Does someone else have your mom?”
“No.”
Why was I even trying to figure this out?The damage was already done. But I stared at the flickering light beneath his chin.
“Why does your scar keep glowing?” I asked.
“What?”
Against my better judgment, I placed my thumb over his scar. It zapped me on contact, and he flinched. But the glow receded.
Going off a hunch, I met the hovering flames in his gaze and asked, “What happened to your mom?”
His face dropped as a sickly color washed away the rosy pink of his cheeks. Agony and guilt reared their heartbreaking heads, urging me to rub my sternum. “Murdered.”
I swallowed back my tears, hating that he confused me so thoroughly.Why should I care that his mother and first love were murdered? Isn’t it what he deserved for what he did to others? To me?And yet, for some reason, a deep-seated part of me hurt.
“How?”
Aspen’s eyes glinted. He knew how she was murdered.
“She—”
The scar zapped me as he fought to get the words out.
“Lili—” He tensed.
“How Aspen?”
“Lilith!” he seethed as the scar sent a bolt of searing pain into my thumb and up my arm. I gasped, letting go.
