A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You paint me as quite the monster.”

“I paint you as a selfish boy judging something he doesn’t understand.” Pushing up onto one elbow, I stared him down, and for the first time ever, he looked away before I did. “I hope one day you know a love strong enough that your heart will overrule your mind.”

“That sounds like a curse.”

“It’s a wish,” I whispered. “Because without that sort of passion, you will never accomplish your vision. And that would be the true tragedy.”

He did not speak, and I had neither words nor breath to fill the void.

“I need him.” The admission dragged itself out of his throat, barely audible, and he scrubbed a hand furiously across his eyes. But not before I saw the glimpse of tears. “I’m afraid of what I’ll become without him. That I’ll turn into my father. Or worse–” he met my gaze “–yours.”

“I know,” I said, my heart aching. “That’s why I’m going to give you what you need to save him.”

Chapter 30

Marc

What was I doing here?

I stood halfway down the drive of the Angoulême manor, with almost no memory of how I’d come to be standing here. Only that to remain in my house, surrounded by the pitying gaze of my servants, had been more than I could bear.

As had been remaining with Pénélope herself.

So I’d left, walking blindly through the streets, the weight on my heart growing even as the bonding marks on my hand dulled from brilliant silver to a dull steely grey. Which was in its own way fitting, given that iron, in one way or another, was cause of nearly every broken bond.

And now I was here.

But to what end? Pénélope was dying. There was nothing I could do to change that. Nothing that I could do to stem the tide of life and light draining from her body, crimson and horrifying. Nothing I could do to ease the grief on her face. Indeed, my presence had made it worse. With shared emotions, the bond was like two mirrors facing each other, one reflecting the other, creating image after image until one turned away, breaking the cycle. Only turning away had granted me no respite, and every step I took through Trollus it became harder to breathe, like wet wool was being shoved down my throat and into my lungs. All I knew was that I needed to find some way to relieve it.

Which was why I was here.

Forcing my feet to carry me forward, I shoved open the doors and went inside, following the sense of power until I found the Duke seated in a gazebo at the center of the famed Angoulême atrium.

He was alone. A Guerre set floated on invisible threads of magic before him, wooden pieces polished by heavy use filling the four boards, those that had been knocked from play having been carefully put away in a matching case.