Page 133 of Tracking Snow

That’s the worst part.

Do I believe him because I love him? Because I do. Past the place where it makes sense.

I should be able to kill this feeling.

I should be able to look at him bleeding on the pavement and feel nothing but rage.

Instead, I want to press my hands over the wound and hold him together.

I think of the men who left him here, bleeding out on the street, like he’s trash. And I can tell he’s not even surprised. He expects it.

But he couldn’t let them do that to Red. He threw himself in front of a bullet for Red. His blood is spreading across the pavement, and I want to stop it. I want to help him.

"Then take me to them," I say. "Please. Take me where Red is. Where Ariel is. I’ll go with you. I won’t fight. Just take me to my friends."

His eyes shut.

For a second, I think he’ll say yes.

His jaw flexes. His throat moves. The conflict cuts across his face so clearly, I could trace it with my finger.

Then he shakes his head.

"I can’t."

"You can."

"I can’t." His voice breaks on it. "But I won’t let what happened to Rosie happen to them. Or Carolee. I swear to you, Snow. They’re going to be better soon."

Better.

The word should make me sick.

Instead, the hope on his face does me in.

The raw need in it. The terrible hope. The boy inside the man, bleeding on a Boston street, still reaching for a cure that would make him lovable.

Normal.

He wants it the way I want magic.

The realization slices through me.

"I want to be good enough for you," he says, barely above the hum of the abandoned street. "Maybe one day, when this is over, you could find a place deep down inside you that can forgive me."

My eyes burn.

"Is it better? One power ripped from your body, do you feel more lovable? Do you feel more worthy?"

His expression is pained, features twisting as if something inside him is tearing loose. The pale white of his eyes fades as different parts of him flash through—blue, green, and purple, a violent flickering betraying the riot inside. Grief ripples across The Seven's face in waves, not just his own but layered, colliding, as if every version of him is screaming at once.

"Will your mother see it that way?" I ask.

As his eyes light, I realize too late I've said the wrong thing. The same sad resolve has returned.

That's exactly what he thinks. One part of him has been killed off, and his mother will see it as an improvement.

"She's wrong," my voice is hoarse as it cracks. "I love you," I whisper, and hate myself for it. "I hate you. I love you."