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“And I told you to answer.”

“You have no right.”

“No,” I agree. “I have no right at all. That has never stopped me.”

Her palm strikes my face, and the sound cracks through the conservatory. Morrigan leaps onto the chair with a hiss. Alcott surges beneath my skin, horrified, but I smile. Olive freezes, hand still lifted, horror rushing in behind the anger.

“No,” I say quickly. “Do not dare regret that.”

Her eyes widen at my words.

“Do not dare give me that expression, as though your hand committed a crime.”

“I—”

“Again.”

Her brows knit. “What?”

“Strike me again,” I demand.

“No,” she murmurs in horror.

“Why not?”

“Because I am not him.” Her words are sharp. Excellent.

“No,” I say. “You are not. So hit me because you want to, not because cruelty taught you how.”

Her face twists. “You are vile.”

“Yes.”

“You are using this,” she exclaims.

“Yes.”

“You are trying to hurt me.”

“I am trying to make you remember who deserves the pain.”

She steps toward me. Finally.

“Not me,” she snaps.

I tilt my head. “Louder.”

Her breathing quickens. “Not me.”

“Again,” I repeat.

“Not me.”

“Again.”

“Not me!” Her fist catches my jaw this time.

Pain blooms bright and clean. I laugh as Alcott curses somewhere deep inside us and Olive shakes, not from fear now, from rage. Real rage.