Page 81 of We Are the Match
Paris
I do not know if I will see them again, but we leave it there, Thea and I, between the blood-soaked fountain at Altea’s fallen mansion and the tangle of our limbs in her bed.
And I go to Helen.
After all this time?Thea asked me, and I had trembled and thought of Helen, lips parting, eyes sparking with joy.
My bag is packed—the fail-safe Thea talked about, the poppy Helen gave me at the party, a passport with a new name and enough cash to get me to freedom—when the knock comes. And with it, relief.
Because I was never going to leave. Not with the knowledge that the queens have been using Troy. Not with the knowledge that Altea knew her household would die for her and sheletthem. And not before I could tell Helen about Lena. Lena, who she still adores, despite it all.
Tommy is at the door, looking older than he had just days ago. “Helen,” he says, and that is all. Helen summons me.
“Did you?” I ask.
He does not have to ask what I mean. Perhaps the carnage is all he can see, too. His eyes are dark and lifeless, and he stares somewhere past my shoulder, as if, like me, he is seeing gates blown in and boys with holes in their chests and bloodstained fountains. “Yes,” he answers.
I hesitate, and then I step forward and wrap my arms around him.
He pauses, body stiffening, and then returns the hug, cupping my head against his broad chest for just a moment. “I don’t deserve that, kid,” he says.
I draw back. “None of us do.” I shrug on my jacket, shooting another glance at him. “What does Zarek want?”
Has he decided it is time to be rid of me?
Tommy’s eyes find mine, finally. “Helen,” he repeats. “Helen wants you.”
Helen wants you.
The words ache somewhere nameless beneath my ribs.
Would she let me die for her, the way those who loved Altea died in the carnage? Would she hold her head high afterward, because I am just another commoner and she was born to a throne? She accused me of being just like her father—but she is the one who wants to rule.
She is the one longing for a throne.
After all this time?
“What does she want?” I ask him. My heart is pounding—not from the danger closing in around me, but from the weight of what I have kept from Helen. The weight of what I am about to reveal, come what may.
Wherever Helen goes, whatever she chooses—I owe her this, at least.
Tommy has already turned to go. “Come on, kid,” he says. “Let’s go.”
I follow him, my footfalls heavy and slow and inevitable.
We are just two playthings of the gods, Tommy and I.
And we do as we are told.
He stops me before we reach Helen. His hand is on my shoulder, gentler than it has any right to be.
“I need to know, kid,” he says.
My own gaze snaps to his. “You need to know what?”
“Is it real?” he asks. “For you. Is it real for you?”
I am frozen beneath his hand. “Tommy.”
