Page 69 of We Are the Match
That is the first thing I hear, above all the rest.
There was aboomabove us so loud I cannot hear anything else, and Tommy is half carrying me away from it all.
They are all fleeing, Altea running with iron in the set of her jaw, and fear on Hana’s face, and I want to scream for Paris, Paris, Paris—
Until I look out the window and see the damage and I know:
Paris has started a war.
She joins us as we reach Altea’s marina, Tommy still running, shielding me with his body.
“I am going to kill you,” he tells Paris, but she seems unbothered.
“Her targeting isexcellent,” Paris says a little breathlessly, utterly ignoring Tommy’s threat.
Tommy nearly throws me into the waiting boat, Paris vaulting in after despite her injured hand, and then we are tearing out of the marina.
When I look up, Altea is standing on the cliff above us, looking down. There is a rifle in her hands, and even from here, I can see the look on her face.
Betrayal, after she thought we were building an alliance.
Fury, after I had almost come home.
I put two hands against Paris’s chest and shove as hard as I fucking can. “What—the—fuck”—I punctuate each word with a shove—“was—that—”
She catches my wrists easily, jaw set. “That, Princess,” she says coolly, “was doing what had to be done. If you wanted it, you could have the whole world—or at least all of your father’s empire.”
“I trusted you,” I snarl at her above the roar of the boat. Why does it feel like I am being split in two, when I knew allalongI could not trust her? Why, then, does it feel like I am bleeding?
To my surprise, Paris’s face mirrors the pain on mine. “I am—”
Sorrydoes not make it past her lips, but I could see it hovering there.
“You should know,” she says finally, “that your trust means something. It does.”
We are inches from one another, her hands still closed over my wrists, our lips a breath away from touching.
“Tommy,” I say without drawing back. “Take us somewhere quiet, where Paris and I can talk.”
Fifteen minutes later, he has us docked on the far side of the island, where the coast is rugged but not entirely impassable, and the night is dark and silent.
He climbs out of the boat, stands off to the distance where he can do what he always does: watch over us, and let us have some time.
“Helen,” Paris says, taking my hands in hers again. “Altea had her long-range weapon system trained on your father’s house. On the wing of the mansion where his bedroom is. If she was willing to blow your house off the face of this island, she was never going to be an ally of yours.”
“But—” I sputter. “But you could havetoldme. You could have given me achance. Are we partners, Paris, or am I just a plaything?”
She drops my hands, looking stricken. “Do you want us to be more?” she asks cautiously.
And there it is again, the question that always seems to divide us:
What do you want, Helen?
“Was I a fool for thinking we were?” I ask. “Paris. You started awar. You must care about that.”
“And you think you know me, Princess?” she asks.
Paris does not spill secrets like blood. Paris’s jaw is set, and she stares past me at the blackness of the sea, knuckles white as she twists her hands together, careful to avoid her injured finger.
