Still, I laughed at him and took yet another swipe with my knife.

Wisely, Rastin jumped back, taking his psychic attack with him. Unwisely, he called again for Stephanie. This time, he even received an answer.

“I’m here!” she shouted from my side of the home. “Help me! I’m here!”

Rastin, on instinct, swung toward her voice—toward the grand staircase.

“You cannot reach her,” I reminded him in a snarl. “It is hopeless, and you know it.”

At once, Rastin turned to me, fists clenched, eyes alight with a strange fire I had never seen there before. “She is not who I have come in hopes of reaching!”

In an instant, my dark mirth morphed, transmuting wholly into fury.

This . . . pity. Rastin’s. It was what made me loathe him.

I lunged for him but, displaying unexpected dexterity, he dodged me. Turning on him a second time, my cloak snapping as it whirled behind, I feinted toward him. Unflinching, he sent me an exasperated glare, as if to say he knew better than to fall prey to any trick of mine.

And with that look, rage dug its claws into my nonexistent innards—and twisted.

No more games. No more patronizing from either of our sides.

No more deluding myself.

With my open hand, I reached toward Rastin, and with my mind, I dove into his chest.

Rastin had called for Stephanie again, but stopped cold, convulsing with my invasion. She shouted in response, urging him to flee, but it was too late for that now. Holding him in my sway, I shut my eyes and narrowed my focus on that beating muscle just behind his sternum.

Fear thrummed in him and his heart hammered as I closed my mental hand around it. Overcome, Rastin collapsed with a groan to his knees, grasping at his chest.

“Erik!” came Stephanie’s shrill but muffled shout. “Stop it!”

Her command. It won my hesitation. And that mere flicker of resolve allowed him to slam me with his most vicious attack yet.

This time, instead of anger or regret, Rastin pierced me through with a feeling so unexpected, I had difficulty even identifying it.

Until suddenly, I knew it.

Relief. It coursed from his spirit—from his soul—and came pouring into me, striking with more force than any blow could have.

He was glad to be here? Compassion, above all, coated the snarl of everything else. Including his fear. His anger.

I let him go. Because I could not bear to be faced with this irrefutable proof that he did care. About me.

“Why?” I asked him as I drew back, clutching the knife tighter, as if willing myself to use it again. “Why do you seek to save me when you know it is useless? Why do you care what becomes of me?”

Rastin ignored me, shouting once more for Stephanie, though his tone had changed. Now he seemed to be calling after her rather than for her.

“Erik,” he then huffed between labored breaths, peering toward the door. “The . . . girl—”