Page 50 of We Are the Match
“She had her favorites,” I say. “Wereyouone of them?”
It is true, that Lena’s Family funded our group home, a supposed act of generosity. It was full of girls who later joined her Family on Troy, before Zarek killed them off in one bloody weekend.
Hana’s eyes flick to my leather jacket, discarded on a poolside chair, and she does not answer my question. “Thatlooks like a Lena gift to me.”
I freeze, just for a second.
I have had the jacket, a flame-retardant leather jacket, since I was seventeen, since Lena—on one of her many charitable visits—stopped to greet me.
Me.
Shame curdles like sour milk in my belly at the memory of my excitement that Lena, Lena of all people, the god of the Trojan Family, had wanted to talk to me.
But starry-eyed adoration turns to ash when gods—Zarek’s bombs, but her match that lit this war—unmake your family.
“I was never one of Lena’s favorites,” I tell Hana. “Were you?”
Hana sighs. “We were friends, long ago,” she says, eyes distant with grief as she runs a finger over the locket resting against her throat.
Does she know that the person she speaks of with such veneration is still alive, her new empire rebuilt above the bones of my sisters? Or did Lena keep it from her all this time, no longer trusting a woman who had fled to Zarek’s side before the flames in Troy had even stopped burning?
I will not get that from Hana tonight, no.
But the only question that really matters, when it comes to Hana, is this: Will she stand in my way, or can she be used?
“So what do you want from this game, Hana of the gods? Because Zarek is on that hill just waiting for an opportunity to start a war with you.”
Hana’s eyes flash, heat and danger dancing there. “I like you,” she says. “You are strong. And you don’t take shit. But this was never a game. And if you forget that, you are going to die before you ever get to make your mark here.”
As if making my mark here would have ever been enough for me.
I tilt my head back and stare up at the stars. The night is cloudy, but the brightest stars are still visible in the night sky. “Hana,” I say gently. “May I be honest with you?”
She leans forward, close to me again, close enough to kiss me, close enough to cut my exposed throat. “Of course, darling.” Her dark hair brushes my bare shoulders, and she leans in, presses a kiss, featherlight, against my collarbone. “I was hoping you would.”
“I want Marcus to die,” I tell her. “Milos is weak—if he is my only barrier, I can have Helen whenever I want her. The only thing between me and Helen now is Milos’s guard dog.”
Hana’s eyes spark. “I see,” she says. “You want more than just a fling, then. You want her for your own, long after she is married. And is that all you want, Paris?”
“I want a world where I have enough power that this”—I extend my injured hand toward her—“never happens to me again.”
I want Zarek to die. I want Helen at my mercy. I want them all turned to dust.
The magnitude of what I will do weakens my knees.
A true smile uncurls across Hana’s face, a light in her eyes as if she has just won.
Hana trusts me now, or at least trusts what she thinks she knows about me. She believes I have told her the truth, and I have, in a way. I have told her enough.
Hana leans close, her locket brushing my skin. “Oh, Paris,” she says. “You are going to be so muchfun.”
She kisses me then, tongue pushing between my lips, her hand splayed across my chest, sliding upward until her fingers are wrapped around my throat.
I kiss her back, just as slow and smooth and firm, though the only thing I can think about is that she does not taste and feel like Helen.No one can feel like Helen.
As Hana kisses me, I slide my hand up her arm, touch her throat, her jaw, until my fingers trail the back of her neck. The clasp on her locket slips easily, the small bit of metal falling into my hand.
And then I break the kiss, and climb back out of the pool, leaving her behind as I go. I stand dripping on her terrace, the wind ruffling my hair.
