“What about?” I asked warily.
Mircea leaned against the door, casual, elegant, like he had all night. Fortunately, I knew that wasn’t true. Unfortunately, diving out the window wasn’t a real possibility at this level. Maybe the roof . . .
“I do not want to play word games with you, Dorina. Tell me what happened last night.”
“I’ve told you—”
“Nothing. Other than the bald fact that a very dangerous creature attempted for the second time to kill you. What you have not told me is why.”
“He tried to kill me before—”
“Because you were in his way. Are you again?”
Nobody ever won a verbal sparring match with Mircea by taking the defensive, so I ignored that. “Are you going to tell me why you wanted the rune so badly that you practically threatened Louis-Cesare’s life tonight?”
“I did nothing of the kind. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Not in so many words, maybe. But the intention was conveyed. And you didn’t answer mine.”
“When you start being honest with me, perhaps I will.”
I just stared at him, too shocked to speak for a moment. Because of all the people to chastise me for a lack of honesty or trust, Mircea’s name should have been last on the list. In fact, it shouldn’t have been on the damn list at all.
His brother Vlad had killed a lot of people in his short reign of terror, one of whom had happened to be my mother. Mircea had wiped that little fact from my adolescent head, afraid I’d go after my crazy uncle and get killed. Or so he said. I had no independent way of verifying that since wiped memories are gone for good.
“I don’t think you’re really one to talk. Do you?” I finally asked softly.
“I have never kept anything from you that was not necessary.”
“In your opinion! Did it never occur to you that I might not agree? That I might have wanted those memories, however unpleasant?”
Mircea hesitated, taking a half second to adjust to the conversational leap. Not that it was much of one. Our history of deception had started almost as soon as our relationship had. “They would have done you little good had you died because of them.”
“That was my decision!”
“You were too young to make that decision. It was my duty to make it for you.”
“A duty you’ve kept up ever since.” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly weary in more ways than one. I was tired of it—of the constant games and the verbal matches, of wanting to trust him but never knowing whether I could, or how far. I’d spent years avoiding a relationship with him for exactly those reasons, and I should have known better than to think that anything was ever going to change.
I’d told them all I could aboutsubrand’s attack. There was nothing more I could do here. “This is a waste of time,” I said, and headed for the hall door.
Mircea didn’t budge, but his fingers bit into my arms. “Running away again, Dorina?”
I stared up at him, angry and tired and hurt. “I don’t run from my problems!”
“Unless they include me. In which case you never do anything else.”
“What else is there to do?” I demanded angrily. “Nothing changes, Mircea. We go on this same merry-go-round, over and over, until I’m dizzy. You manipulate me, lie to me—”
“I have never lied to you.”
“Just twist things around to say what you want them to say, instead of the truth.”
His jaw tightened. “Sometimes, the truth can be dangerous. If I had allowed you to retain your memories about Vlad, you would be dead. Merely another of his victims.”
“And what’s the excuse now? Because I’m sure you have one, and I’m sure it will sound perfectly plausible. And I’m equally sure it will be bullshit!”
“And do you not do the same to me?” he asked, a spark of amber lighting the deep brown of his eyes. That wasn’t a good sign, but I was too pissed to care. “You almost died last night, practically under my nose, and you said nothing?”
“There were extenuating circumstances.”
“There always are with us, it seems.”
I started to shoot back a reply, but stopped. He looked tired suddenly, hollowed out and drained, in a way that was terribly familiar. It could be another game; it probably was another game. But it stopped me anyway.
“If you don’t start to trust me, this is never going to work,” I told him simply.
“And what is ‘this’?” he asked carefully.