He let my fingers come as close as his cheek. And then, he caught me by the wrist.

Without moving, I waited. He said nothing. Just held me in a grip that, though not tight, remained wholly inescapable.

Finally, I spoke.

“You once asked me if I trusted you,” I said, my eyes trained on the hand that held mine. “Now, after everything, you’re asking me to do that again.”

He made no comment. Just held my wrist, like he was trying to decide what to do.

“Won’t you do the same for me?”

He kept his hold on me. I didn’t pull away, though.

Another moment of intense nothing elapsed between us in which even the clock seemed to hold its breath. Suddenly, he released me.

I paused. And then my hand moved again, my palm closing the distance, impossibly settling on the cold—nearly freezing—surface of the iron mask.

With the smallest of tugs, the barrier came free.

I fought to keep my hand from quaking even as I held the metal mask, so much heavier than Wrath’s, in place. Inside my chest, my heart boomed a warning that my blood carried through to every cell of my body.

Ignoring it, I took my hand away and with it . . . the mask.

SEVENTY-TWO

Zedok

Eyes shut—no courage in me with which to face her—I braced myself for the scream that would split my mind and bring Madness down upon us both. For the tenuous heart inside my breast would surely disintegrate at her horror—shrivel and become as dead as me.

Her words had made the truth clear, though. She would not budge if I did not give in. And if I had learned a single thing about Stephanie Armand, it was this: that my determination to stay hidden would not win against her determination to see.

But . . . as air, as breath—hers—touched my coarse flesh, the scream I so feared never came.

Still, the rose in my chest clenched itself tight as an angry fist.

Any moment, it would rend, regardless of her reaction.

Just when I could bear no more, warm fingertips brushed my right cheek.

I scowled, still unable—still unwilling—to open my eyes.

Not even when I felt the impossible sensation.

Of her . . .

Leaning closer.

SEVENTY-THREE

Stephanie

When it came to the question of what lay beneath his mask, I didn’t really need an answer.

Hadn’t I seen more than enough last night?

Amazingly, my hand stopped shaking the moment I began to lower the mask—the moment I began to see.

The mask had always given the impression that his twin light eyes had existed in pits of solid nothing. That had just been an illusion created by shadow, though. He had eyes. Real eyes. Sunken and deep-set. Would they match the eyes of the boy from my dreams? I wouldn’t know until he opened them.