Page 66 of Crown of Thorns

And the terrible answer is that I'm not sure I want forgiveness anymore. I'm not sure I want to be forgiven for becoming useful. For learning. For understanding that violence has logic and logic can be mastered and mastery is power.

That's what terrifies me most. Not that I might become this. But that I might already be becoming it. That every day I stay, I consent a little more. That every secret I keep, I become a little more complicit. That every time I look at Lorcan and don't ask questions, I'm building the cage around myself brick by brick.

And worst of all, I'm not sure anymore if I want to escape.

Chapter thirty-five

The Threshold

Lorcan

The study smells like cedar and whiskey, same as it always does.

Renny doesn't speak while I talk. Her hand is cold in mine. She follows because she understands that following is not the same as compliance. She follows because she's already made the choice to know.

"Once you see this," I tell her, "it can't be unseen."

"I know."

She doesn't ask what "this" is. She doesn't ask how bad it is or whether I'm certain I need her to witness it. She just listens.

I tell her what was done to him. Both hands broken. The right side of his face. The eye. I give her the facts the way Dec gave them to me — flat, unadorned, no room in them to hide. His body bears the marks of systematic interrogation. Every bruise was intentional. Every break was necessary. Every moment of pain was a question and an answer.

He was alive when Dec brought him in. That was Dec's job — to keep him alive long enough to confirm everything, then make the call about what came next. I made that call already, days ago. This is what's left.

Renny doesn't move. She sits very still, taking in what I've made of a man who served my family for forty years.

"He knew the punishment," I tell her. "Every soldier in this organization understands that defection means death. He accepted those terms when he took the money."

I watch her carefully. If she breaks, if she turns away, if she begins the process of backing out of what she's become, I need to know now.

Her hands go still in her lap while I talk. I watch her do the thing she always does — running some clinical inventory in her head, even with nothing in front of her to examine.

"Multiple compound fractures," she says quietly. "The right side is worse than the left."

"Yes."

"Did he tell you what you needed to know?"

"Everything. Names, dates, payment arrangements, the contact who coordinated the Doyle operations. All of it."

She nods. Her hands stay folded in her lap. She's quiet for a long moment.

"Was there another way?" she asks.

The question I've been waiting for. The question that determines whether she can carry this forward or whether she breaks.

"No," I tell her.

She nods again. She doesn't look away from me. She's not recoiling. She's not weeping. She's doing what I married her to do—she's understanding that violence is sometimes the only language available in this world.

"The eye," she says. "That was punishment beyond information gathering."

She knows. Of course she knows. She's a veterinarian. She understands anatomy and intent and the difference between necessary damage and excessive damage.

"That was personal," I admit. "He's known me since I was a child. He watched me learn to run a territory. He accepted payment from my enemies. The eye was for the insult."

Renny turns to face me. Her eyes are clear. Steady. She's not afraid of me. She's not judging me. She's understanding me in a way that's complete and terrible.