Page 13 of Vanish Into Light

She…couldn’t think at all, right now. Not about anything. It hurt to do so. She stood, chair legs screeching, and said, “Lance is my CO. What I think doesn’t matter.”

“Rosie–”

She wasn’t proud of fleeing, but she did it anyway.

~*~

Lance watched Rose disappear out the door and felt his hands clench to fists in his lap. It wasn’t a meal time, and the mess was empty, now.

Save for the two of them.

All the fine hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Becket’s presence was like the static of a radio out of frequency; like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. Lance could feel his gaze; could hear the quiet, unhurried breath he took before he spoke.

“What in hell’s name have you done to her, du Lac?”

It was the tone that was the worst part, somehow: that mild, unbothered screen of polite curiosity.

Lance turned to him with great reluctance, that hum under his skin growing stronger, and found Becket with one elbow resting negligently on the table, wings drooping and relaxed, gaze half-hidden by a screen of hair. One that he reached to push back with long fingers, the movement casual, deft around the horns.

“What haveIdone to her?” The words came out far less forcefully than he’d intended them to. “You’re the psychopath who taught her how to kill for sport.”

Becket’s smile was only visible in his eyes, the faint deepening of the lines around them. “You know, I hate the wordpsychopath. Sanity’s relative.”

Lance snorted. “It’s not relative to you.”

“I killed people who needed killing, because it needed to be done. Are you telling me you never wetted your own knife? You were buried deep in Castor’s den of iniquity. Did you never participate? Never kill or fuck or snort blow to prove you were one of the boys?”

“I was doing my job–”

“And so was I,” Becket snapped, the smile vanishing, gaze flaring bright. “I worked years to eliminate that bastard. I was cutting down his men one by one. And I was looking after those who needed me – looking after Rose.”

“Looking after her? Youleft her.”

Becket’s nostrils flared, though his tone remained hard, and even. “Rose knew my plan. She’s a strong girl, and she knew that I was going to kill Castor, whatever the cost.”

“Except you didn’t kill him yourself, did you?”

“I closed the rift. I killed that angel and it closed. I went tohellto stop it from spreading.”

“That doesn’t change what you did to Rose.”

“Oh.” Becket’s brows flew up. His lips pulled back from his fangs, but it wasn’t a smile at all. “I see. So you, Knight du Lac – you would sacrifice the whole world for love, would you? Wouldn’t that make you the villain, after you’ve styled me as one?”

Lance shoved to his feet, his anger a live wire snapping loose in his chest. “I’m glad you went to hell. Better you than anyone else. You’re a sick fuck who gets off on killing, and you dragged Rose into your sick agenda with you. Then you left her to pick up the pieces all by herself.”

The non-smile widened, wicked and sharp and awful and impossible to look away from. Becket’s eyes pulsed like gas lanterns. “But she wasn’t alone, was she? How noble of you, offering to fuck the heartbreak away.”

“That isn’t what–”

“That’s exactly what you’ve been trying to do. What? Did you think I couldn’t smell you on her?” He chuckled. “What an honorable Golden Knight, doling out sex as medicine.”

“Just because she’s doubting you now–”

“She’s not doubting me!” Becket lunged across the table, wings spreading wide; he moved so fast Lance didn’t have time to react – and then he couldn’t, because Becket’s clawed hand was twisted up in the front of his shirt, and his serpentine tail was wrapped around his throat.

Like before, with his hand, the grip wasn’t overtight; wasn’t squeezing. But it was a solid presence and weight at his windpipe.Move and I’ll crush you. So Lance held perfectly still; he even held his breath.

Becket leaned in closer, until the heat of his breath fanned over Lance’s face; it smelled like smoke. In a low, silken voice, he said, “She’s not doubting me, Lance. She’s doubtingherself. That’s the thing you’ve never understood about Rosie: she’s not a victim. I didn’t corrupt her. When she was killing at my side, that was the truth of her, unvarnished and fully-realized. There is room for tenderness in that truth – but a tenderness that ignores it, that seeks to wipe it out…that’s not love. That’s conversion.”

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