Page 66 of The Threads Between

She was quiet for a moment. Then her fingers curled tighter against my chest.

“I spent years building the same kind of fortress,” she said softly. “But I couldn't reach you from behind it. So I tore it down.” A pause. “I'm terrified of what's left without it. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe alone.”

We held that truth between us, neither of us needing to say more.

She spoke first.

“Syra is dead.”

The words did not accuse. They simply existed and settled into me with a weight that did not move.

“She saved you from your father,” Lily continued. “Intercepted him as he fled the opera house. Then dragged you to safety while he was down.” Her voice was steady, but her fingers tightened against my chest. “A hunter followed her. Shot her before we could flee.”

Another life consumed by his need to control what he could not understand.

I thought of the voices I had heard through the grey nothing. Muffled. Distant. Fragments reaching me in the void where I had been scattered. One of them had been desperate, fading: Tell August—worth it.

I had not known whose voice it was. Had not been able to hold the thought long enough to understand.

Now I understood.

“I am sorry,” I said, meant it with the entirety of myself.

Her fingers tightened against my chest.

“Five Weavers died at the opera house,” she said quietly. “Adeline's hands are permanently damaged. Beatrice nearly killed herself holding the suppression.” She paused. “Too many women have already paid the price for this.”

The truth of it struck clean.

“I know,” I said. “And that is why he will never stop being dangerous. He does not see the cost.”

The pendant pulsed again, sharper this time, as though it resented the direction of our thoughts.

“He will come,” I said.

“Yes.”

“He will not forgive this.”

“No.”

We both understood what completing the bond would mean. It would not merely free me. It would sever the last thread of authority he believed he held over my life.

It would be open defiance.

“I do not regret it,” I said.

“Neither do I.”

Outside, the wind rose against the windows. The house, which had offered refuge, now offered only borrowed time.

“We rest tonight,” she said at last. “Tomorrow we move. Somewhere he will not think to look.”

“And where is that?”

A dangerous hint of a smile touched her mouth. “Somewhere he believes beneath him.”

My own mouth curved in answer.