Not that he’d let me on any night even if I wanted to. Santiago has kissed me twice, maybe three times, but never has it been me kissing him. He must allow it. Don’t they know that?

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. At least my captor hasn’t bound me since I’ve been back. I’m still barefoot, still wearing that white dress although it’s not white anymore. Nothing can stay clean in this place.

Someone tried to kill Santiago. The thought boggles my mind.

And the fact that they think that someone is me? I can’t wrap my brain around it.

But then I get to the next part. The more important part.

He’s alive.

There’s a part of me that feels relief. And, if I’m honest with myself, something else. Something like a spark of hope. And a small bubble of something I don’t want to name that quickens every time the door opens.

I shake my head.

God, what is wrong with me?

When it comes to Santiago and my situation, there is no hope, no spark of some other nameless, ridiculous thing. I can be relieved that he’s alive. But I can only be relieved that he’s alive. That’s just being human. Even if I hate him, it doesn’t mean I want him dead. And the hope I feel is only for my freedom. Hope that when the door opens, it will be him. My husband will come for me.

The devil you know. That's all this is. It’s not that I have feelings for him.

And besides, what would they do to me if he hadn’t survived? If he’d died? The Society and their precious Sovereign Sons. I don’t delude myself into thinking I could ever be precious to anyone but this? Accusing me of attempting to murder my own husband no matter how much I hate him? It’s insane. Unbelievable.

But he’s alive.

And my mind begins its incessant circling again.

I pull at my hair to distract myself. If I could just see him. Talk to him. Explain that I was in the chapel, and when the second gong rang out, I had been hiding in one of the bathrooms. Explain that I couldn’t get out.

Coincidental. Convenient. I can hear him now.

He hates me. He already believes the worst when it comes to me, and this will not alter his feelings. Not in a way that would benefit me.

I tried to explain it to the man who is holding me. I tried to tell him what happened, but he wouldn’t have it either. He threatened to gag me if I wouldn’t keep quiet on the drive back to this horrible place, and when he’s come in to feed me and empty the bucket, he has refused to speak to me.