Page 103 of Freeing Hook

“No, don’tDarlingme. There is something broken inside me. Something fragmented. I’m not…I’m not right,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut, just for a moment. “I am torn. Always have been. And now I know why.”

He squeezes the space between his brows. “I know. I never meant to hurt you.”

“That’s not exactly an apology,” I say.

He glances up at me, gritting his teeth, and I know we’re both remembering the cave, him telling me that he only ever apologized to one person.

That I’m not her.

“You didn’t take me because of my shadow soothing,” I say, the realization washing over me. Astor had never specified my shadow soothing was what he needed me for. He just hadn’t bothered to correct my assumption. “You took me because you need me to get rid of your Mark. You don’t want to feel for me anymore.” When the captain opens his mouth to protest, I shake my head. “Don’t bother denying it. You don’t have to tell me you hate me. That you feel nothing for me. We both know anything you feel is only because of this,” I say, taking his hand and rubbing my fingers over the roots on his knuckles. He tenses underneath my touch, and it hurts to feel his reaction. To know it’s not him, but the magic coursing through him.

“Darling…” he says, then stops himself.

“Don’t worry,” I say, offering him a well-practiced smile. “I’ll help you, when the time comes. I think I’d like to be rid of you, too. Maybe then we can finally be rid of each other.”

His jaw ticks, the sorrow unmistakable on his expression. “If that’s what you want.”

There’s something cruel shaping my lips as I repeat his words back to him. “Tell me whatyouwant.”

The captain’s throat bobs. He swallows, searching for the words as he looks away.

Just tell me you want me, I cry with all my heart.Three words, and I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. Since the moment I took my first breath.

The captain takes my chin in his hand and lifts it, so that I have no choice but to look at him. His ivy eyes sweep my face, brushing over my nose, my cheekbones, my mouth, like he’s searching for his answer there. Like he’ll find it somewherewithin me. When he presses his forehead to mine and his eyes shut, I don’t blink. Refuse to look away.

But when he opens his eyes again, I realize what he was trying to do. That he thought, just maybe, if he could close his eyes, he could erase what he sees when he looks at me.

That’s what I should see when I look at him. I should see my parents’ murderer in the creases at the corners of his eyes, in the slant of his lip, the shadows of his dark beard, the length of his long eyelashes.

But I don’t.

Because the moment he opens his eyes, all I see is him.

And all he sees is her.

“I’m sorry, Darling.”

“It’s okay,” I say, slipping back and away from his grasp. Not daring to watch as his hand falls away from my face. I let my mother’s smile play on my pretty lips. “I’m not,” I lie.

CHAPTER 39

JOHN

I’m on the way back from the cave, mind still fixating on Tink and what an idiot I was for not kissing her, when voices—well, a voice, really—has me wandering from my path to the Den.

It’s Simon. I recognize his voice—the suppressed quality that’s painted its edges recently—but I can’t make out who he’s talking to. In fact, as I draw closer, pushing brush out of the way as it attempts to scratch my glasses, I realize I can’t hear another speaker at all.

“He’s dying,” says Simon, somewhere off in the distance, still obscured by the bushes. “Why can’t you tell that he’s dying?”

My pulse accelerates, but I still my breathing. There’s a slim chance Simon won’t notice me sneaking up on him. Not with that fae hearing of his. I’d rather not alert him of my presence if I can help it.

“Please. Please, just let go. He’s still alive. If you let go now, he’ll recover. He’s been poisoned. Please, I’m begging you to look. He can’t breathe. You’re killing him. Stop, please!”

Abandoning all attempts at concealing my presence, I rush through the brush. I know it’s illogical, but the irrational anxietythat it’s Michael being hurt races through my mind. Thoughts of how I’ll never forgive myself if…

I come to a clearing, expecting to find a murder in progress.

But it’s just Simon, speaking to the trees. His silky black hair is matted with sweat, his voice husky. Red lines streak the whites of his eyes, and his tanned skin has gone sallow. His gaze is fixated on the thin air, like he’s listening to a judge hand down his death sentence.

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