Page 84 of We Are the Match
Helen snatches my hand. “I need you to do this,” she says. “Paris, don’t you understand? If we don’t do this, he’ll kill you.”
I have survived him once, and Helen should not underestimate me now. “We have more options than just overthrowing him, Helen,” I tell her sharply. “There is no way to rule that saves the girls of Troy.”
“You’re wrong about that,” she argues. “About me. My mother was a better ruler than my father—her people loved her, were loyal to her.”
Iwasher people.
And she let us all die.
“Aren’t you listening to me? My father wants tokillyou,” Helen continues. “Tommy is loyal to me. He could lead some guards, if I asked him, hold my father hostage in my study, and meet with the queens. We could make a bid for power, you and I—”
“Helen.” Her name comes out in a rasp. “I—I have something I need to tell you, too.”
Lena is alive, and she may have bombed your party.
Lena is alive, and she may be moving on the throne you want for your own.
Lena is alive, and will you still want me at your side when you learn what I once planned to do to you and your family?
But before I can find the words for any of it, the elevator doors open behind us.
I turn my head, and—it is too late.
Too late for us all.
Because there at the door is Zarek, flanked by all his guards, Milos and Marcus at his side, their guns trained on us.
Chapter 30
Helen
They are not supposed to be here, not yet—not until this afternoon. We were supposed to have time toplan, Paris and I, to make something out of this horror. To change things, just this once.
Milos is wearing his usual pressed shirt, but without the suit coat. He is deathly pale, the weapon in his hand trembling violently.
I can feel myself slipping away—away from the person I only ever am with Paris or Tommy. The mask slides back into place.
“Father,” I say, willing my voice not to tremble. “Milos, darling? What is the meaning of all this?”
“Helen, move,” my father says, waving his gun at me. “Paris. Tommy. Kneel.”
Tommy’s face is unreadable, but Paris’s expression is all rage.
Tommy moves past me, setting a hand warmly on my shoulder as he goes.
“Tommy,” I say. “Tommy, Tommy,no. This isn’t—Father, you can’t—”
“It’ll be okay, kid,” Tommy says. “It’s all right. It is.”
The smile he gives me is warm, after everything, and then he kneels on the windswept rooftop, hands behind his head, fingers interlaced. Welcoming the inevitable.
Paris stands still, stance wide, scowl on her face. “Come and make me, then,” she says.
“Kid,” Tommy says gently.
This time he is not talking to me.
It is this—and not the guns—that makes Paris step forward, passing me without casting a look at me and kneeling beside Tommy. They face straight forward, their expressions calm in the face of all this.
