031— "TELL ME."

                    ~ KAI~

I crossed the drawing room in six steps.

Luka stayed where he was. Smart man.

Sloane saw me coming and redirected the knife — at me now — like she had decided this was entirely reasonable.

"Don't," she said. "Don't you dare come here and be all…" she gestured at me with the knife, "—tall — and — all of that — when I'm in the middle of a very important conversation with Anton."

"Give me the knife."

"I'm not finished."

"You're finished."

"I have MORE QUESTIONS."

I took the knife from her hand. She let me, which told me exactly how far gone she was. I set it on the table and looked at her. Up close her eyes were very bright and her hair was everywhere.

"Come," I said. I took her wrist.

She pulled back. "Where."

"Upstairs."

"I don't want to go upstairs."

"I know."

"I want to stay here and have my conversation."

"Anton is retired for the evening."

"He cannot just RETIRE…"

"Sloane."

"I'm not done TALKING!"

I picked her up.

Both arms. One under her knees, one behind her back. Off the ground before she finished the sentence and she made a sound of outrage that hit the ceiling.

"PUT ME DOWN."

"No."

"I will scream."

"You're already screaming."

"I will scream LOUDER."

I walked past Luka. He looked at me. I looked forward. His face said everything and I acknowledged none of it.

"This is KIDNAPPING," Sloane announced to the hallway. "My SECOND kidnapping in this house. ANTON. ARE YOU WRITING THIS DOWN."

"He's not writing anything."

"He should be DOCUMENTING!"

"Stop talking."

"You stop talking. You and your — your face — your whole—" another gesture at my general existence, "—situation. I have questions. Very valid questions. And nobody is answering them and I find that extremely…"

She went quiet somewhere around the second landing.

I looked down.

She was looking up at me. Just — looking. All the noise gone. Her eyes doing something open that she would not remember in the morning and I looked away and kept walking.

"You smell nice," she said.

"Go to sleep."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It's the only one available."

She considered this with great seriousness. "Fine," she said, with the dignity of someone who had one shoe. "But I have more questions."

"I know."

"About the terrace."

My jaw tightened.

"And the paintings," she said. "And about mistakes. I have several questions about mistakes."

I pushed her bedroom door open with my shoulder and set her on the bed and she grabbed my wrist the moment she was down. Both hands. Holding on. Looking up at me.

"Don't go," she said.

"Sloane."

"One minute. Just sit."

I sat on the edge of the bed.

She looked at my face for a long moment. Her grip didn't loosen. Her hair was across her cheek and I reached out and pushed it back before I decided to and her eyes followed my hand all the way.

Then she slapped me.

Open palm on my cheek.

Not hard. Hard enough.

I stared at her.

Her eyes were wet.

"After everything," she said. The chaos was gone from her voice completely. What was underneath it was something she kept behind walls I'd spent weeks watching her maintain. 

"After kissing me like that. Touching me like that." Her jaw moved. "You shouted at me. Because of those paintings." A tear ran down her face and she didn't touch it. "Was it a mistake? Was I just a—" she stopped. Swallowed. "Or is it because you love her already?"

The room was very quiet.

I looked at her face. At the wet on her cheek. At her hands still around my wrist.

"It wasn't," I said. "Sloane. It wasn't a mistake. I—" my voice did something I hadn't authorized. "She's my…" I stopped. I tried again. "She was…"

"Look at them."

I stopped.

She was staring past my shoulder. At the corner of the room. At nothing. Her hands went tight on my wrist.

"They're coming," she said.

"Who?"

"Crew." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. "All of them. They always come." 

She blinked at the corner. "Mum. Dad. Elijah—" her voice broke on his name and she pressed her lips together and kept going. 

"Elijah didn't even get to finish his first year. He just wanted to teach history. He said someone had to make sure nobody forgot." Her eyes filled completely. "Nobody's going to remember him, Kai. Nobody's going to remember any of them. And me—" she laughed. It came out hollow and terrible and wrong. "Can't wait to join them. Soon. That'll be soon anyway."

My ribs cracked open.

Not the bond. Not the chest malfunction I'd been cataloguing all day. Something that lived underneath both of those. It hurt so bad I had to hold my chest.

She looked at me then. Really looked. Her eyes red-rimmed and her face stripped of everything she usually kept between herself and the world.

"Why," she said. "Why do you have to be so…" she shook her head. "So heartless. Plaguing me with these… these feelings… these—"

She fell forward.

Her forehead on my chest. Her hands releasing my wrist and going still at her sides. Her whole weight against me and her breathing slowed to something deep and uneven.

I didn't move.

I put my arms around her.

I held her.

I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for the room to settle around us. Long enough to feel her breathing go from ragged to slow. Long enough for the warmth of her to come through my shirt and sit somewhere it had no business sitting.

Long enough for my cheek to go wet.

I blinked.

Touched my face.

I looked at the wall and saw nothing.

Sixteen years.

I had not cried once in sixteen years. Not when my father told me to run. Not when I understood what running meant. Not in the safe house or the years of hunting wolves through pack territories and not a single night of feeling anything about any of it.

I thought about my mother's hands holding mine. The painting room. The boy in the largest canvas looking up at her and never considering that this person could simply be gone one morning.

I was going to lose her.

The rejection mark. The timeline I knew and she didn't. Crew and the challenge and the clock running and I was sitting here holding her. She was warm and she had said ‘soon’ like she’d already accepted it and something in my chest…

I laid her down.

Pulled the blanket up.

Pushed the hair back from her face one more time.

I looked at her.

Then I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand and walked out.

Luka was in the corridor.

He looked at my face and took one second.

"Kai." All the humor gone. Just his voice. 

"Don't do this. She's Silvercrest. You can't lower your guard for someone who comes from that world. You know what happens when—"

"Enough."

"I'm being serious…"

"Luka." I looked at him. "Enough."

He held my gaze for a long moment.

Then he stepped aside.

  

I found Anton at the foot of the stairs.

"Her skates," I said. "Return them to her room tonight."

He nodded once. No questions.

                  …

The painting room was dark.

I stood in the doorway and let my eyes adjust until she came through the dark — the largest canvas, directly opposite, the faint light from the corridor finding just enough of her face.

My mother.

And the boy.

I looked at his face. At the way he held her hands. Who had never once imagined the word gone could apply to the person in front of him.

I stood there for a long time.

Then I walked to my office and sat down. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn't used in months.

Two rings.

"Talk," said the voice.

"A rejection mark," I said. "Third stage. Accelerated timeline." I looked at the dark window. "How do we get rid of it?"

Silence.

"Kai." The voice went careful. "At that stage there's only one way."

"Tell me," I said.