Page 22 of Inside the Wicked

“I ended up with Alistair when I was fifteen,” she says. “I’m twenty-eight.”

She’s the same age as Rhett, who got away from Alistair when he was sixteen, and I realize with wide eyes ...

“You knew him.”

Her jaw tightens. It makes me want to press, to know if they were friends, but my mention of it doesn’t thaw the ice in her green eyes.

“I came here because we need to talk about what to do about Silas,” she says, matter-of-fact.

It’s often like she doesn’t know how to socialize, only to give and take orders, and that tightens my chest for her even though we’re not friends.

“It seems pretty clear. Your attempt tonotearn his attention seems to have attracted it more so.”

“He’s likely seen hundreds of dancers on that stage. He’s not really interested in me—he’s only finding a thrill in figuring out who we are and who we work for. You need to do a better job of convincing him you’re not hung up on your dead ex.”

Those last words pierce me, aimed with precision and no apology, like her bullets.

I take a second to breathe and remember they’re not true.

Rhett is alive.

Rhett is alive.

Rhett is alive.

My mood plummets. Impatience starts to grow reckless roots through me, and the phone Rix gave me becomes a dead weight in my pocket. I often want to throw it out of frustration. It’s been more than a week of silence.

“Once you make him believe you’re all in for him, he’ll focus his attention on you,” Kenna says.

“Or we could let him indulge in his fixation on you. It would still give Alistair the alliance.”

“It won’t,” she snaps. “I’m no one, Ana. Absolutely no one. There’s not a chance Damien Balenheizer would ally with Alistair because his son chose someone like me.”

For some reason, I pity Kenna as much as I admire her.

“Did you know him?” I ask again, barely a whisper since Kenna keeps herself in the middle of a minefield, ready to detonate anything that could break her defense.

“I knew Everett Lanshall,” she says, so icy I shiver at it. Kenna pushes herself upright, looking me dead in the eyes. “He was a fucking coward, and he deserved the inevitable fate he got.”

I decide I don’t like her.

I might even hate her in the heat of the anger that rushes to the surface all at once.

My fists tremble at my sides, and her eyes dip to them.

“Are you going to bottle that rage or try me?”

I’ll admit I’m fucking tempted, but I also know how futile and embarrassing it would be for me. She might see me as a fool, but I’m not about to prove I am one.

“You’re all alone in this world, and you deserve to be,” I say just as coldly.

Her chuckle is dark. “I’m alone because I choose to be.”

“How long did you train in ballet?”

The question throws her off, and I feel like I’ve won something.

“I haven’t.”

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