Page 23 of Dark Sun (Wicked Lovely 6)

So she studied and read.

She had plenty of time to do so. Her college classes were online, and her social life had the pulse of a century-dead goat. Aside from fighting with her mother or reading every folklore book she could find, Katherine had nothing really to fill her hours. Her outing with Gina was fun, but not a thing she could do often.

The next morning, Katherine felt like she had made a choice, so all that was left was acting on it.

“Video games in fifteen,” Aunt Ida sung out as she passed Katherine’s room.

Was this it? Her life? Trapped in the prison of her home for the rest of her . . . who knew how many decades? What about hikes? Hot air balloon rides? Horseback? Activities that weren’t simply for preparedness of potential future attacks? What about having a life?

Or falling in love?

Katherine was as patient as she could be, but it seemed unfair that her mother’s choice to risk it all on love meant that Katherine was to be an eternal prisoner.

She went to the window and stared out at the scrub that stretched out in the desert. There, watching her again, was Urian.

He sat on a throne of sorts, if the cheap refuse of humanity could be called a throne. Today, it was an old recliner instead of a battered lawn chair. This time, the chair was deep red leather, with a slice on the side that had left the leather parted like a battle wound.

He ought to look silly sitting there, languidly sprawled out in an old chair. Hell, he ought to look as desperate as the old, drunk creepers in trailer parks she’d stayed in a few times.

He didn’t.

“What are you staring at?” her mother asked from the doorway to the room.

“Nothing . . . important.”

“You tighten your throat muscles when you lie,” her mom said, coming into the room. “You didn’t use to do that.”

Katherine looked out at Urian, who patted the arm of the chair as if beckoning a dog.

Reflexively, she flipped him off.

“So, you make vulgar gestures at nothing? Or are we admitting you lied?” Her mother’s arm went around her waist.

Katherine sighed.

“Talk to me, Kitty Kat.” Her mom squeezed her in a one-armed hug, still giving her space to move away.

“I went out for a walk a couple weeks ago . . .”

“I know. I saw it on the cameras.” Her mother stared out the window. “There’s someone out there. Do we need to pack?”

“No.” Katherine pulled away from her mother and walked away from the window. “Youdon’t. I need to go, though. I need to find out what--”

“Who. Not what.” Octavia was no longer calm. “You are not awhat.”

“I’m not just a who,” Katherine said, voice as non-confrontational as she could make it. “Let me go, Mom. I’m not a kid. I’m twenty-four and—”

“For a . . . for yourfather. . . twenty was still a kid. Some creatures don’t mature as fast as I do, for example. Maturity in faeries—emotional maturity is complicated. The same is true of halflings. It’s about life expectancy and—”

“I know.” Katherine took a steadying breath. “I’m notjustlike him though, am I?”

Her mother looked away.

“I need answers I can’t get here. Answers you can’t give me.” Katherine wished she could lie easily, but the fact that she couldn’t meant that she needed her mother to look at her now, to see that she was being honest. “Mom? Watch me. Youknowwhen I’m honest.”

When her mother looked back at her, Katherine said, “I swear I’ll be careful. I swear I’ll do my best to come home to you and—”

“No promises.” Her mother’s hand covered her mouth. “Sometimes they’re binding and . . .”

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