Page 19
“Out there, beyond these walls, you’d be dead.”
My eyes widen in disbelief at his words.
His voice softens further, almost like a whisper shared between two people who are still learning to trust each other, despite the walls they've built around themselves. “You may not understand it now, but keeping you here, giving you the space to breathe, to heal . . . It’s the only way to keep you alive.”
I hate the way his words slip under my skin. His eyes hold mine, steady and unflinching, the truth of his words sinking in with the weight of his focus. “I’m not asking you to like it, but it is the only choice I have. It was the only choice you had.”
“Alive?” I scoff, forcing a bitter laugh. “But not living.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Instead, that damn smirk creeps back. “I’ll take you living,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping his soft lips. I glare, ready to snap something back, but he cuts me off, voice dipping low, carrying a dangerous edge. “You wouldn’t have made it, Lyra,” he repeats, emphasizing the words as if they didn’t carry enough weight the first time.
The words hang there for a heartbeat.
“The army had already stationed itself, anticipating your every move. They knew exactly where you’d run. After you escaped, they wouldn’t have bothered catching you. They would have just ended you. Right then. Right there.”
He leans in closer, our stride in sync, before brushing his hand against mine, deliberately as if to offer some comfort for his confession, as if the weight of his words carries more than just concern.
“They wouldn’t have spared you. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
Couldn’t. Not wouldn’t.
The subtle shift in his tone makes my breath catch, but I force myself to slow, to distance myself from him and his hand that is still touching mine, frustration bubbling up inside me. “Then why bring me here?” I demand again, my voice sharp.
“If you wanted to save me, why not help me get away? Why lock me in this place?” Disbelief is etched in every word, sarcasm filling my tone.
He pauses, his gaze lingering on me, a flicker of something deep in his eyes. After a moment, his lips curve slightly, a playful yet serious tone slipping into his voice.
“I need you, Lyra,” he declares, his teasing tone not matching the confession he just made. Before I can spiral at what that could mean, he speaks again. “I knew you wouldn't have come willingly if I just asked. Not without a little . . . persuasion.” His smirk deepens. “And maybe—” his smile returns, taunting, “I just didn’t want to be in this prison alone. You’re the only person who makes it bearable.”
“Need me? For what?” The words snap from my lips before I can stop them, laced with frustration sharp enough to cut.
Oberon’s brow lifts, that infuriatingly familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. But there is something else there now, something deeper lurking behind the playful glint in his eyes. He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, his voice dropping to a low murmur.
“I’m curious,” he says smoothly, though there is a roughness beneath the surface. “How do you think you escaped, Lyra?”
The question lands like a blow. My breath hitches.
What?
I slow my pace, narrowing my eyes,
“What are you talking about? I escaped because—” But the words stall in my throat. My mind races, dragging me back to that night, the cold sting of the concrete floor, the iron tang of blood in the air. I swallow hard. “They forgot to lock the cell . . .” I start, but my voice wavers, and I hate how small it sounds.
“I was . . . broken. So broken, I thought they didn’t see me anymore. After everything they did—" My throat tightens. “Everything.”
The memories claw back with sharp teeth: the pain, the cold, the endless cycle of being cut open and pieced back together, like I was filth, no more than the rodents who scavenged the chambers.
“They tossed me aside when they were done. Like, I didn’t matter. I remember hitting my head. The floor was cold. I could barely breathe, let alone move. When I woke up . . .” I close my eyes. The world spins again like it did that night. “The door was open. Barely a crack. Just enough.” I pause, my fingers curling into fists. “And I almost didn’t take it. I almost stayed. But something inside me . . . something small but burning . . . told me to run.”
Silence stretches between us. I force myself to look at him, expecting the usual smugness, the teasing remark he always has ready. But the expression he wears now holds a seriousness I’m not prepared for.
The glint in his eyes is gone. “That door wasn’t left open by mistake.”
The world seems to tilt.
I stare at him, searching for some hint of sarcasm, some sign this is just another game. But all I find is steady resolve. “You?” The word scrapes out of me, hoarse with disbelief. “You did that?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
