Page 87 of These Immortal Truths
Immediately, his expression twists—those fathomless eyes pinning her in place. “Thank you?” he echoes, as if the words were a knife. “Youdare, after you gave up every opportunity to escape, tothank me?”
He stands, stalking toward her—a tower of fury and spite as he grasps her chin, his long fingers digging into her jaw. “I warned you to leave the country,” he hisses. “And now you’ve forced my hand to meddle in a realm that isn’t mine to meddle in!”
Her lips thin. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“You didn’t need to, Anna!” he snaps, the words gravel and brimstone. “What, exactly, do you think would happen when they figured it out? How far would they go, how many tortures would you endure, when they tear you apart trying to understand why you just won’t die? Do you think I would stand by and let you suffer? Wouldyouwish that onme?”
She pales, his words a strike to her heart. She has never seen him so furious. Never have his words cut with such a cruel edge.
He draws closer, their faces a hair’s breath apart. He must see the horror in her eyes, the crushing realization, because he releases her chin with a disgusted hiss of breath. Takes a step back, then another, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you’ve cost me.”
Anna reaches out to him, his name on her tongue.
He’s gone before it can spring from her lips.
She stands, regret as sharp as the wind on her cheeks. Slowly, her outstretched hand drops.
A numbness sweeps over her. For the first time since they arrived, she takes in her surroundings. The beach is barren save a few wind-worn trees and craggy cliffs. All around her, for as far as her eyes can see, is nothing but ocean.
It’s eight weeks before Khiran returns.
Eight weeks of hunger and thirst; of scrounging the shoreline for crustaceans stranded at low tide and a never ending search for pockets of rainwater between the jagged rocks. Of days filled with loneliness and cold damp nights under the cliff face. Eight weeks of staring off into the waves and weighing which is worse: starving or drowning? She is knee-deep in ocean water, the undertow pulling the pebbled sand from beneath her feet, when she hears her name over the wind.
Anna turns, catches sight of him on the shore. The waves slap at the back of her thighs, the water wicking up her clothes. She’s freezing, body shivering with it, but in that moment—seeing him, unfazed, so close to the exact spot he left her—all she feels is heat.
She runs to him, the water tangling in her legs and slowing her down. When the tide pulls out, the ground shifting beneath her, she trips. Sand coats her damp skin, her clothes, like scales. Like armor.
Good.
She knows, the moment she recognizes the soft edges of regret playing across his face, that she’ll need it.
Her fists pound against his chest, tears burning down her cheeks. “How could you,” she spits, pain and fury coiled so tightly they become synonymous. “Youleftme here!”
He doesn’t flinch away from the assault, but he doesn’t stop it either. “It wasn’t my intention.”
Her fingers curl into his shirt, his words only serving to fuel her anger. “Wasn’t your intention?” she echoes, words hissing past her teeth. “It was a god damn island! How could …” her voice trails off, eyes pinned to the flawless seams of his shirt—the way the crisp cotton barely flutters despite the wind tangling her hair.
She pulls away from him, disgusted. “You coward,” she growls, hands fisted at her side. “You don’t even have the decency to face me yourself? Were you just going to let me talk to an illusion this whole time?!”
The copy’s expression is carefully blank. Behind her, his voice barely carries over the sound of squawking gulls and crashing waves. “That was the hope. What gave it away?”
Her nails bite into her palms. “The clothes.”
A moment of silence, a sigh of understanding. “The wind. Of course. A rookie mistake.”
The double disperses lazily and without the usual grandeur or finesse.
Anna turns. He’s sitting on the rocks a few paces behind her, his arms extended and elbows resting on his raised knees. There’s something off, though. There’s no feline grace in the lines of his body, no proud arch of his brows or challenges in his eyes. His spine is bowed, shoulders slumped. It’s enough for the words burning on her tongue to cool.
Then she sees the purple marring his flesh, just under his jaw, and feels her blood chill. She thinks of Silas’ words:the same one Khiran would save you from knowing.
“Is it the silent treatment, now?” The small laugh he gives is as sardonic as his crooked smile. “I suppose that would be a fitting punishment.”
When she says nothing, he looks up—interpreting her line of sight as easily as if it were mapped out in string. His hand lifts, elegant fingers grazing the bruised flesh of his neck. His smile turns bitter at the edges, as cold as it is sharp. “I see I missed a spot. Forgive me, I’m afraid I’m not at my best.”
“What happened?”
He looks away, standing. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” The motion is smooth, but it lacks his usual grace.
