The sound of approaching lawguards rings loud in my ears, clanking metal and shouted orders, and in a blink Lucien pulls me in to him, into the shadows behind the dye vats and away from the light. The world fades; I forget the smell of the vats, the blood trails that must be on my cheeks. His every ridge is pressed against mine—our hips digging into each other’s, our chests flush and breathing hard. I look up, our faces so close I could count the dark eyelashes around his strangely amused gaze.

“I can’t help but pity you, Lady Zera.”

It feels like the cobblestones fall away from my feet. A sick coldness rises up in their place.

“I pitied you when we met at the Welcoming,” he says lightly, a sigh on the end. “An Y’shennria, without status or parents, being offered as a plaything. Someone as sharp as you didn’t deserve to be made a pawn of the marriage game.”

If he pities me, why is he holding me so close? Why was he so worried about people seeing my blood tears not moments before?

“Pity?” My voice shakes. Memories of our dance in the street parade, our faces so close in the tavern beneath his cloak, his hand in mine and his head on my shoulder as he shed tears for his lost sister. “Not all of it was pity.”

“Of course not.” The prince chuckles, the sound so at odds with my coldly burning body. “Only most of it.”

The coldness hardens in my stomach like a pit of ice.

“After a few days of deep introspection, I’ve come to realize: I was infatuated with you because I pitied you. You tried so hard to make me love you, and I pitied you for your efforts. I pitied how alone you were in court, how ignorant you were, how terribly everyone thought of you because you were an Y’shennria. Somewhere along the way, it became affection. But an affection based in a sickly soil can never bloom into a true flower; it can never bloom into true love.”

I swallow what feels like metal shavings, scraping my throat on the way down.

“Oh.” He laughs softly, hollowly, keeping his mouth by my ear. “Don’t look so troubled, Lady Zera. You and I both know it’s true. It was only two weeks. What sort of love is ever true after only two weeks? We were infatuated, and nothing more.”

His thoughts mirror mine, the truth like needles piercing any joy I held secretly.

“And yet,” he says, “emotions aren’t convenient pieces of jewelry you can put on and take off whenever you want to.”

What does that even mean? That the things we shared can’t be removed from memory?

’twould be easy enough to reach around and take his eyes out, the hunger offers, salivating. that will make him despise you, for certain.