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Biting her lip, Penelope glances at me through long lashes. “What was it like?”
“Terrifying.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, but there’s no pity in her voice.
I lean over to hand her the discarded shorts and top, then help her slip on her robe. Pulling my own pants up over my hips, I shrug. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but I had just left the day before. If I’d stayed…”
“I wouldn’t have been moping in my room missing you when the fire started?” I grin, teasing. Penelope’s face falls, as if I’ve just spoken her deepest fears. “Hey,” I say, sliding my hands over her hips. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Did it hurt?” Her brows draw together, and for the first time, I feel like someone really wants to hear about that day.
People have asked me about it, of course, but there’s always been some sort of sick curiosity underlying their words. Behind their well-meaning stares full of pity and sadness, there’s always a hint of pleasure at my misfortune, like they’re watching a gruesome true crime documentary play out on my face. Those conversations always leave a bitter coating in my mouth.
With Penelope, there’s none of that. She asks me about the fire as if she wants to know—not because she wants to feel better about herself or because she wants to pity me, but because she truly wants to understand what it was like that day at boarding school.
Roughing my hand through my hair, I take a deep breath. “Yeah, it hurt,” I finally answer, my thoughts faraway. It’s like remembering an old movie, as if my brain has shielded me from the true horror of that day. “I was stuck on the top floor, and I ended up crawling down the stairs to the entrance. The fire was blocking my path.”
Penelope’s hands reach for my chest, drawing soft circles over my skin. I slide my hands around her waist, loving the closeness of her body. I haven’t talked about this in a long time. I don’t like remembering the years of doctors’ appointments and skin grafts and operations.
It’s a visible scar no one wants to acknowledge—least of all me.
I gulp. “I had to run through it. My shirt caught fire, but they said I was lucky I didn’t inhale more smoke. They said by crawling to the exit and running out, I saved my own life.”
Penelope’s shoulders drop as her hands slide up to the nape of my neck. She wraps herself around me, leaning her cheek against my chest. Her skin rests right above my heart, where the edge of my scar begins. “I’m so sorry, Asher.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I feel like I have no right to be upset about anything. My life has been easy.”
“Just because you don’t show your scars doesn’t mean they aren’t there.” My voice is soft, and I let my hand drift through Penelope’s hair. I tuck a strand of gold behind her ear, kissing the top of her head. Here, like this, alone in a house on the edge of the world, it almost feels like nothing else exists.
I’m not my father’s son. I’m not here to start a new mining project. She’s not the Queen. We’re just two people who understand each other. Need each other.
“I’ve never really talked about the fire,” I admit. “Whenever people ask me about it, it always feels like they’re doing it to satisfy their own perverted urges.”
“That’s how I feel about Xavier’s death,” Penelope says, her voice soft. “Sometimes I get the impression they used my grief as a symbol of virtue for me. Like if I ever wanted to move forward, I wasn’t allowed to.”
“The people of Nord?”
“The media. My family. My advisors.” She lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “It’s not that bad. Cost of wearing the crown, I guess.”
“You’re allowed to struggle.”
Penelope glances up at me, smiling sadly. “No, I’m not.”
“That’s how I feel sometimes, too. Unless I’m achieving more than everyone else at the company, I’m just the boy who was in the fire. I have to perform better than my brother, bring in more business, be more ruthless—all in the hope that people see me as something other than the sum of my scars.”
“You’re a lot more than that, Asher.”
“Am I, though?” I think of the way my father’s eyes drop to my neck whenever I walk in the room. How he averts his eyes whenever a sliver of skin is showing. How even after everything I’ve done for him, he still plans on giving the company to my incompetent, pretty-boy brother.
“You’ll be providing jobs for a lot of people who need them.”
“And they’ll be providing my father with healthy profits.” Bitterness soaks through my voice, and I wonder why I’m doing any of this. For my father? For the money?
It all seems so…meaningless.
