Page 59 of Freeing Hook

I let out a shrill laugh, staring at the ornate bed draped in silken sheets. The bed itself is too small for two to sleep comfortably, not without holding one another. Like the Carlislesare playing a private joke on us. “I don’t know how you can stand to touch me at all.”

Astor traces his fingers over the bedsheets. “What did you and Lady Carlisle discuss during dinner?”

My mouth goes dry as I stare into the windowed wall, made entirely of golden-ribbed glass. A taunting reminder that they’re always watching. That nothing we do is private.

“We’ll have to sleep in the same bed. They’ll know if we don’t,” I say, nodding to the looming glass panes.

Astor curls his nose in disgust, but he doesn’t argue with me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

He’s fisting the bedsheets now, steadying himself on the frame of the bed as he squeezes his eyes shut. “How much do you know?”

I open my mouth, but I can’t find the right word.Everythingdoesn’t seem true.

“Enough,” is what I end up settling on.

“That’s not particularly specific, Darling.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to recount it.”

He cuts his eyes to me. “I’m accustomed to having to do things I don’t want to do.”

My heart pounds, bruises, breaks, then repeats the cycle over again. When I speak, my voice trembles. My limbs are as feeble as a wilted daisy petal, as brittle as dried bone. “She said your wife—Iaso—was special. Said she was a healer, but not the traditional sort. Whereas most healers’ powers are transferred through touch, Iaso’s worked differently. She had to use her own blood.”

Astor isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring out the window, his grip rattling the bed frame.

“Lady Carlisle said the rumors are that Iaso was called to Jolpa during the plague. That she visited as many households as she could manage, but she could only work so many at a time,because she had to mix her blood into the medication. She didn’t want anyone to know how her healing worked. Was afraid the truth would put her in danger. Make her blood valuable. Besides, she had to rest often in between healing sessions.

“According to Lady Carlisle, Iaso received word that an aristocrat’s daughter had fallen ill. That she was close enough to taste death. Iaso was supposed to be resting, allowing her blood to replenish. She told the messenger she couldn’t come, but her compassion won out in the end.

“What she didn’t know was that the aristocrat knew her secret.” My throat closes up, because this is the part of the story Lady Carlisle didn’t know the details of—who told the aristocrat that Iaso’s blood would heal the child. That it was the Sister’s voice that whispered from the shadows. The Sister who had betrayed Iaso’s secret. I’d always been told that when my parents made their bargain with the Sister, it had been the Sister’s power that healed me. But they’d lied. The Sister had fulfilled her end of the bargain through Iaso. “When Iaso visited the girl, she wept over her and told the girl’s mother it was too late. She’d never succeeded in healing someone so close to death.”

Astor is heaving now, supporting his weight on the bed with his fists digging into the sheets.

The next part comes out hollow. Stiff. Like I’m reciting the script of Cressida Rivers’ fact sheet. “Lady Carlisle didn’t know which one of the parents slit Iaso’s throat. Which one of them bled every drop of blood from her body and bathed the child in it, making her drink of it too. All she knew was that Iaso died, and the little Darling girl lived.”

When I’m done, the silence is the worst part. I would have thought letting the story out, expressing it like an infected wound, would relieve some of the guilt bearing down on my chest, but it only allows it to infiltrate the surrounding air, threatening to suffocate me.

I know it’s foolishness, but it’s as if I can taste Iaso Astor’s tangy blood in my mouth, as if I can hear her gurgling cries, feel her sticky blood against my bare skin as my mother bathed me in it.

Astor clenches his teeth. There’s no life in his eyes. The flicker has gone out. “You weren’t supposed to know that.”

“Why not?” I don’t know why there’s so much accusation in my tone, but it’s there all the same. “I’m the one who got to live, didn’t I? You don’t think I deserve to know the price that was paid so I could… So I could…” I frown, unsure of what I’ve done with the life that should have been Iaso’s.

Surely I’ve done something, but all I can remember is dancing with her husband at the masquerade, hoping his Mating Mark was the match to mine. All I can feel is the heat of his touch against my cheek as he stroked my Mark, the burning in my chest every time he looks at me. In my heart, I know I love Peter, that my soul belongs to him. But as the guilt weighs down on me, all I can see is every time I’ve looked upon Nolan Astor, and the wicked girl within has craved the man whose wife died for me.

I tell myself never again. Never again will I betray Peter like that. Never again will I betray Iaso Astor like that.

“It wasn’t your fault.” The way he says it is like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is me.

“But you hate me all the same,” I whisper, loathing myself for how that of all things is what’s bothering me right now.

I wait for him to confirm it. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s told me he abhors me. But it stings all the same when he swallows and admits, “Despite all logic, yes.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s despite all logic for you to hate the girl who got to live because your wife was forced to take her place.” I sink my face into my hands, but I can’t bring myself to cry. It doesn’t feel fair to the captain’s pain to have to watch me suffer over something that ripped him to shreds.

“I don’t know how you even stand to look at me,” I whisper.

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