I tried hitting him a few more times, halfhearted swipes, crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Let it out,” he whispered into my hair. “Let it out, moj maly ptaszku.”

I guess most of all it was because he’d come back for me again. It was like the relief I used to feel

each time I heard Dad’s truck door close, each time he stamped into the house or the apartment or

hotel room or whatever damn place we were living. Each time my heart would swell up like a balloon because he hadn’t forgotten me or left me behind. Every kid’s afraid of that, right? That someday you’ll be left in a corner, like a toy, staring with button eyes and a broken heart.

Christophe kept coming back for me. He was here now. He’d saved my life again.

But God, how I wished he was Graves.

Jealousy

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

When you cry that hard, it leaves you washed-out and not quite numb. And embarrassed, especially

if you have tears and snot all over you. I sat on the floor with my back against the white bed, staring

at the sticky stain of banana-flavored coffee. My brain tuned to that weird hum when you’ve cried

yourself past everything and you don’t want to think. Everything retreats to white noise again.

Christophe brought me a cool wet washcloth and a box of tissues. He settled down cross-legged on

the floor a few feet away. What do you do when a beautiful djamphir watches you so closely? He

was staring like he saw something green. Or like I had a bunch of snot on me and he was just too

nice to say so.

I blew my nose, mopped myself up. The pile of used tissues got larger, and I finally pressed the

washcloth onto my hot, aching face. Smoothed it gingerly over the bruises. A nice cool washcloth is

good after you’ve been sobbing your heart out. Gran used to put a cool rag on the back of my neck

when I finished crying over something from the valley school, or anything else. It’s good after you

have the stomach flu and throw up, too. Soothing.

It got hard to breathe through the thick terrycloth, though. So I had to peel it away and face the

world again.

He was still watching me, the faint suggestion of a line between his dark eyebrows. Like he was

worried about me or something.

I didn’t blame him. I was worried about me, too.

After a little while, he could probably tell I was ready. He was looking at me so intently, maybe he

was reading my expression. My poker face was really sucking after all this.

“My Trial begins at sundown.” His hands rested on his knees, loose and easy. He always looked so

impossibly finished, every thread tucked away and every surface carefully buffed. I never saw him