“What do you mean?”

“He sounded off.” Zayne looked down. “Let me get you out of here.”

“I can get myself—”

“There are bodies and gore covering just about every square inch of the pool. You’re going to walk in it and slip.” Zayne’s wings spread out and he lifted in the air. “And I doubt Dez would be happy with you getting brains all over the car seat.”

I frowned. “Brains are already on me.”

“Even more reason to not get more on you.” He hovered above me, extending his arms. “Let me just get you out of the pool.”

Zayne had a point, but I hesitated, feeling as if I needed to prove that I could do this without help. I’d already needed his help once tonight. Frustration burned as I took a step and felt something sticky under my boot.

“What is it?” Zayne’s wings moved soundlessly. When I didn’t answer, he moved to my other side. “Talk to me, Trin.”

“It’s just that... I already had to rely on you tonight when I couldn’t see, and I can get out of here. It might be messy, but I just...” My hands opened and closed, and I thought about how badly I’d performed while training blindfolded. “I need to be independent.”

“What?” Confusion filled his voice.

Staring at what I thought might be exposed ribs, I struggled to find the words to explain. “I don’t want you or anyone to think that I can’t be...independent, or that I need to rely on others all the time.”

“I don’t for one second think that you accepting help when you need it means you’re not independent.”

“Yeah, well, other people won’t agree with you.”

Zayne landed next to me, probably in the only clear spot. He tucked his wings back. “Who are these people?”

I coughed out a dry laugh. “Everyone? Have you seen how people talk about others who have...” I swallowed hard. “Who have disabilities?”

God, saying that was harder than I’d realized. Disability. What a loaded word, one I wasn’t sure I’d spoken aloud before. Maybe I’d never said it because of what it implied, that there was something different about me, something that had to be accommodated.

But disability wasn’t a bad word, and it didn’t mean that. It just meant what it meant. I was a Trueborn. And a kick-ass fighter. But I was still disabled at the end of the night. And I knew that didn’t define me. It wasn’t the sum of who I was. It was just a part of me.

Still, it was a hard word to say.

And I felt bad for feeling that it was a hard word to say. Like I was betraying others with disabilities by finding it hard to admit I, too, had a disability.