"You mean a prison," she interjects. "You have him locked up in that room like a common prisoner, dictating who comes or goes."

"It's a kindness he does not deserve," I mutter, turning away to unbutton my shirt and discard that too.

"I should be helping him." Ivy sniffs. "He shouldn't be there alone, recovering without any of his family. He should be here with us where I know he's safe. Where the guards can protect him too. Now that I know someone poisoned him, I won't be able to relax thinking that it could happen again."

"It won't," I assure her, leaving out the part that his death will not be so kind.

"Please." Her voice wavers. "I want you to promise me you won't hurt him. I need that from you."

I turn back to her, rigid and frustrated. I can't give her that. Doesn't she understand? I can give her anything else in this world she might desire, but not that.

"I can't make you a promise I have no intention of keeping."

Her face falls, and she staggers back, using the bed for support as she stares at me with watery eyes.

"But he told you he would help you. He told you it was Abel or those other members. Not him."

"He told me what he thought I wanted to hear," I say. "Any man in his position would do the same."

"You'll never accept it, will you?" She swipes at the tears that are starting to spill down her cheeks. "You won't accept that you could be wrong about him because it means you would have to admit you've been wrong about me too. Then you'd have to open yourself up and learn how to love someone other than yourself, but you can't because you're so blinded by your own hatred."

“You think I’m in love with myself?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “Oh, sweet, naïve Ivy. You have no idea what I feel.”

She dips her head, a flush creeping over her cheeks. “You can be so… infuriating!”

"I'm going to take a shower," I growl. "Go to sleep."

I slam the bathroom door behind me, sealing myself in as I close my eyes and drag in a deep breath. Ice runs through my veins as I play her words over, dissecting the meaning behind them.

You'd have to open yourself up and learn how to love someone other than yourself.

How could she not realize I have no love for myself? It should be evident every time she walks through these darkened halls. And who does she expect me to love, exactly? Her?

Answers to those questions are in short supply, but it doesn't stop me from playing them on repeat as I turn on the shower and step into the hot spray. I turn to face the wall, eyes shutting as the warmth flows over my face. Why would she possibly think I'd ever be capable of love?