“Me?” He looked at the bottle in Al’s grip, then topped off his glass with the bottle on the hearth between us. “I’m not the one Ceri loved,” he said, but I could hear his regret. I waved off his offer to refill my untouched glass, and when I remained silent, he added, “I liked her, but I didn’t love her. She was . . . too proud to love me. Distant.”

“And you need someone more earthy,” I said, only half kidding.

Al snorted. There was a clunk, and the wine bottle rolled out from behind the curtain. It sloshed to a halt at Trent’s foot, and he reached for it. “A little spontaneity would be nice,” he said, touching my foot by accident when he set Al’s bottle next to ours. “I already miss her and her elegant demands and flashing indignity. You couldn’t tell the woman no.”

“Not that . . .” Al mumbled in his sleep. “He’s going to need that later . . .”

“I’m angry at her unnecessary death. It hurts seeing Quen grieve and know it’s partially my fault,” Trent added, his jaw tight and his gaze unfocused. The scent of cinnamon was rising, mixing with the scent of burnt amber and woodsmoke. It almost made the burnt amber smell nice. “I’m sorry for this,” Trent said softly. “I’m sorry for everything.”

This wasn’t like Trent at all, but I wasn’t surprised to see it. I was upset about Ceri and Pierce, but I hadn’t been planning on a life with either of them as Trent had with Ceri—in some disjointed, separate fashion. Alone. He had always planned on being alone, but never this apart. Even with Ellasbeth, he would be alone. I felt bad for him. It wasn’t fair. None of it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, shifting to look at him. There wasn’t much space between us, but it seemed uncrossable.

“Maybe someday I’ll believe you,” he said, his brow furrowed in the firelight. “Rachel, I asked you here tonight for more than getting my fingers back.”

Panic slid through me. “What?”

He grimaced, clearly annoyed that Al was snoring in the corner. “We could’ve done this anywhere, but I wanted you to see me, to see this,” he said, gesturing at the room. “I wanted you to know where I came from, what I am under the choices I make.”

My heart pounded. “What did you do?” I asked, terrified, almost.

Exhaling, he looked at his watch, the crystal catching the light to make time vanish. Then he scared me even more when he drank his glass dry and filled it again. “I made a big mistake by not telling you why I thought the slavers were the better choice.”

“I know,” I interrupted, and his brow furrowed.