“If you tried and it didn’t work, then why not?”

“Do you decide to hide thoughts from me?”

“No. I didn’t realize I was doing it until you told me.” I pushed my bangs away from my eyes, not understanding why his temper was so cutting. “Do you know why you’re blocking me out?”

His upper lip curled. “Why does your face change color?”

“Zylas!” I yelled furiously. “This is serious!”

“I am serious.”

“I told you, that isn’t important—”

“You hide too much.” He stood, towering above me. Cold red eyes stared down. “When you think of me, your mind is silent. When I ask, you refuse to speak. You say it is not important, but untruth creeps in your meaning. All deep, important thoughts about me are hidden in your mind.”

My mouth opened, but I didn’t know what to say.

“I trust you in many things.” His voice dropped, huskier—and more dangerous. “I do not trust you with my everything. I do not trust you with my mind and thoughts and all things I feel and know and wonder. Not you who hides so much from me.”

“But … but it’s not …”

Not important. Except his preternatural ability to detect lies told him I was not being entirely honest.

“It worked before,” I whispered. “You trusted me once.”

He stared down at me, then turned away. “I will find a different way to defeat Nazhivēr.”

No arguments sprung to mind as he disappeared into my bedroom. No simple solutions manifested as I sat alone on the living room floor, waiting for him to return.

He didn’t trust me. He couldn’t open his mind to me.

His persistent questions about my face changing color had seemed so frivolous—just another way to annoy and embarrass me. I’d never considered that it was important to him. That he needed to understand. That he was searching for an insight, however small and insignificant, into what I thought of him.

But I’d locked all those thoughts away, and as a demon conditioned by a lifetime of violence to mistrust everyone, he couldn’t abide my secrets. He would only open up to me if I opened myself up to him first—all my secret, private thoughts bared to his scrutiny.

And that … that was never happening.

Chapter Fifteen

Chewing on the end of my pencil, I studied the translation I’d just finished. My face was warm, my heart pulsing slow and hard against my ribs.

I’d pored over fifty pages to find Myrrine’s third journal entry. Based on the amount of grimoire she’d recopied before this addition, I assumed weeks or even months had passed since her account of successfully summoning a Vh’alyir demon. Her new entry—so long she’d dedicated a full page to it—seemed to confirm that some time had passed.

But that wasn’t the part that had triggered the flush heating my neck.

I am losing myself, sister.

Some days, I think I have never been so whole, so alive. Never have I felt this safe. Never have I felt this protected. Never have I felt such freedom from fear.

My Vh’alyir is ruthless. He is power and cunning and strength, and he commits it all to our safety. But he is so much more.

The questions he asks me, sister! Curious as a child, he wants to know everything. The conversations we have, about our world and his, fuel my wit and grip my imagination, but sympathy wells in my bosom as well. The violence he has known, so great the terrors of my life seem mild to him, makes me ache.

Last night he told me of the ferocious battles between demon males. Rivals fight to the death, all for the honor of passing on their seed—of breeding and raising warrior sons to continue the battle.

I asked him, Does it not seem pointless?

He looked at me with sadness, with a resigned heart, and asked, What else is there?

And sister, this is where I wonder if my mind slips, for the urge to comfort him was so strong. I know he is powerful, yet he is no beast. His conformation is well matched with a human man, his countenance is fair, and his physique … here I sigh, for his physique is magnificent. Am I mad to long to touch him?

Am I mad to see beauty in this demon?

Am I mad to want more?

Perhaps where my madness truly lies is in this urge to put my unseemly yearnings to the page. Do not judge me harshly, sister, for I dare not share this confusion even with you. I can only pray that sense returns to me before I fall any deeper.

– Myrrine Athanas

My gaze roved across my careful printing, then to the grimoire. Myrrine hadn’t written the words on its pages with her own hand, but I couldn’t help imagining a reed pen in her slim fingers, the tip scratching across rough paper in fits and starts as she penned questions that would go unanswered in her lifetime—questions that had probably never been answered.

μα?νομαι ποθο?σα α?το? θιγγ?νειν

Am I mad to long to touch him?

 

μα?νομαι ?ρ?σα ?ν το?τ? τ? δα?μονι τ? καλ?ν

Am I mad to see beauty in this demon?

 

μα?νομαι πλε?ω θ?λουσα

Am I mad to want more?

I slid my fingers to her first line, her opening fear written boldly—I am losing myself. Myrrine would never know how much empathy I felt for her through those four words.

A heavy weight grew in my chest as I shuffled my mother’s notes, her pages sitting beside my own. If fate had played out differently, Mom and I would have translated this together. I could imagine how we would have gasped and tittered after the initial translation, shocked that our ancestor thought she might be in love with a demon.

Once the surprise had passed, we would’ve discussed Myrrine’s thoughts. Was her confused yearning for a deeper connection with the demon genuine, or was it misplaced gratitude for the safety he provided? Was she attracted to the demon or merely drawn to his strength? Had she been losing her mind, or was she simply a lonely girl carrying too many burdens and aching for affection?

We would’ve dissected each sentence for clues. I would’ve pointed out that Myrrine had known the direction of her thoughts was unhealthy—she’d questioned her sanity, called her feelings “unseemly yearnings,” and prayed she’d return to her senses.