Page 84 of Pulling Strings

“That guy was gonna shoot you.”

In the mirror’s reflection, I saw him perched on the edge of the far bed with the trashcan pinned between his knees.

“I stopped him,” he said.

My grip squeezed too tight on the toothpaste, popping off the cap and sending it tumbling down the uncovered drain. Muttering a curse, I dropped the tube. He’d have to go without it.

When I dumped the collected toiletries into the duffel bag, Donovan became aware of the present at last.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Packing.” I stuffed clothes into the bag. “And you should help. We don’t have much time.”

He set the trashcan down, then tugged up the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. “Where are we going?”

I caught a hand in my hair and pulled till my scalp stung. I wasn’t as drunk as everyone seemed determined to believe. Despite those last gulps of alcohol, I was sober enough to feel raw and to know I was losing control when I should have been getting it back.

“There is no ‘we,’” I replied. “Not anymore. It’s you on your way to a beautiful, boring life, and me.”

“And you what?”

For that, I had no answer.

After a prison stint, threats of execution, Capitol plea deals, a prison break, and a not-guilty verdict that still had me reeling, surprisingly little had changed. And, as for my—as Jax called it—“very clean slate,” I didn’t believe for a moment it would stay that way.

Scooping up the bloated duffel bag, I tossed it onto the mattress beside Donovan.

“Anything you wanna take with you, you’d better grab now,” I said.

Rather than springing to action, he stared with his brow scrunched and his lips parted with a protest several seconds in the making.

“This again?” He shook his head. “You’re too late. I’m in the gang, Fitch. I earned it. Fair and square.”

“It’s not a fucking trophy,” I retorted. “And I’m sorry Grimm turned it into one. Really, I am. You deserve so much more…”

I failed to pull my thoughts together before Donovan stood and walked forward.

“You know what?” The swagger in his step did not elude me. He must have felt like a big man right now. Like the tough guy he thought he should be.

He stopped within arm’s reach. “If you think it’s so bad, why don’tyouleave?” he asked. “You’re a free man, right? Innocent. Legally. Why don’tyougo?”

I recoiled. “Go where? I can’t leave the city. There’s a wall, in case you forgot.” My gesture to the barrier miles away drew a frown from him. “And I’m a witch.”

Less than two weeks ago, I had killed a man to maintain that status quo. Continued isolation was the basis of the Bloody Hex’s political platform. Donovan knew that, just like he knew how he and I were affected differently by it.

“I’m stuck in this place,” I continued. “With these people. I’ll never get away from it.”

“But you want to.”

It wasn’t a question.

My discomfort grew along with the tension in the room. Finally, I stepped back. “Stop making this about me.”

“Everything’s about you.”

Whatever space I’d given, he took back. “You keep saying you want to be honest with me, but maybe you should be honest with yourself,” he said. “Do you want to be in the Bloody Hex, or not?”

I stared at him for a long moment. Had his eyes grown harder? Sharper? Was the loss of innocence so immediately profound?

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