He shrugs. “I wasn’t sure if I should let you live or not. I wasn’t sure if your little troupe brought you here just to hurt me in some way, gain power over me, or maybe just make me watch you die in the competition, so, yes, I considered letting things take their course so you’d never be a weapon against me. But I’m glad I didn’t, daughter, because you’ll be much more use as my weapon. As long as you can harness that power of yours.”

My mouth is dry, and not because my father considered letting me bleed out.

“My troupe doesn’t know I’m your daughter.”

“Of course they do. I’ve had them watching you since your mother died.”

“You’re lying.” I try to break free of his grip again, but his fingers don’t budge.

“I do not lie.”

“You said you didn’t know where I was, but you’ve known for ten years. You left me for ten years.”

A violent storm flashes on his face before he reins it back in. “I needed to see if you were built for this life.” He stares down at my arm as I tug against his grip. “I’m still not sure.”

Roman appears beside us. Probably out of thin air. He wears slacks and a blue vest so light it’s almost white. It makes his hair and pale skin glow with a vibrancy his monotone clothes usually hide. He is breathtaking. “Lucius.” Roman bows low, his curls draping forward to obscure his face. He stays there until Lucius gives the faintest nod, and then he straightens. How he could even see him nod with his eyes on the floor and that mess of hair remains a mystery—one I might obsess over if not for my father’s hand still clenched on my arm.

My own fingers have grown cold enough to burn. The beds of my nails turn blue, highlighting my green paint. The veins in my arms seem to stand up against the edges of my skin, throbbing, almost begging to come out into the open, to find some kind of warmth. I swallow and wince at the dryness in my throat.

Roman takes in my face quickly before his eyes dart to the hand on my arm and then back to Lucius’s face.

Lucius smiles, noticing everything.

I grit my teeth against the shattering, burning cold.

Some unknown instinct tells me not to cry out. I know I am the mouse and he is the cat, with his quiet claws ready to puncture my flesh at any moment.

Roman clears his throat. “Thank you for watching my date, sir.” His hand twitches by his side, but he doesn’t reach for me.