I focus on rubbing my hands together, letting the friction warm my fingers.
“Do you really not care about him anymore?” Gus presses.
“I . . . don’t know. My head and my heart don’t match. I still remember everything. But I can’t feel it. I’m just sort of . . . empty.”
Gus nods as he ties the strip of fabric across the widest gash on his arm. “I guess that’s better. Maybe the broken connection will keep Vane from trying to rescue you.”
“Do you really think he’d come after us?” I’m surprised the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.
“It’s Vane. He’s the master of taking stupid risks. Besides—he’d do anything for you. Or he would have, before . . .”
“Well,” I say, my voice cracklier than I’d expected. “Hopefully he’s over it.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“I have to.” It’ll be safer for Vane if he lets me go.
“Wow,” Gus breathes. “And I thought I had it rough.”
“How can you even compare the two?” I wave my arm toward his seeping wounds.
“Uh, I got smacked around a bit. You ripped away half of your essence and gave up the guy you loved. Don’t even try to pretend that wasn’t agony.”
It was.
And the cold hollowness that followed was worse.
“You got more than smacked around, Gus,” I remind him. “You have a hole in your shoulder.”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s only a little hole.” He tries to smile as he traces his fingers along the edges. But I can hear the pain in his voice.
“I have a bandage on my side,” I say, wishing it weren’t such a pathetic offer. “Part of it’s soiled, but Vane’s mom used way more gauze than I needed. It might even have some ointment on it.”
“Not worth it. This is the kind of wound that’s never going to heal.”
He presses his palm over the hole and a hint of fear creeps into his eyes.
“How did Raiden do it?” I whisper.
“You don’t want to know.”
I don’t.
But I’m going to have to see it.
The realization sends me spiraling, and I can’t tell if I fall backward or crawl. All I know is that I’m somehow pressed against the wall of my miniscule cell, gasping for air.
“What’s wrong?” Gus calls.
I try to relax—to focus on slow, deep breaths. But even when my heartbeat steadies, it doesn’t calm the panic.
I close my eyes, swallowing the bile on my tongue as I tell him, “I can’t watch him hurt you.”
“It won’t be as bad as you think.”
“No—it’ll be worse. I saw Aston. One hole is only the beginning.”
All the color drains from his face. But he straightens up, promising, “I’ll be okay.”
“How?”
I trail my fingers along the scratches in the floor, wondering if a prisoner made them while they were being tortured—or a friend who had to sit there and let it happen. . . .
My hands shake with rage, and I’m not sure if I’m angry with Raiden or myself. All I know is: “I can’t do this.”
The words hang in the silence between us until Gus sighs, sounding so weary and broken a few tears creep down my cheeks.
“So what’s going to happen, then?” he asks. “Are you going to teach Raiden Westerly?”
“I don’t even know Westerly anymore—I tried to tell Raiden that, but he wouldn’t believe me. Because of this stupid wind!”
I claw at the draft still whipping around me, wishing I could pry it off and fling it away.
I don’t care that it’s loyal or protecting me. “I don’t deserve to be shielded!”
“Stop it!” Gus shouts, and the anger in his voice makes me freeze.
He takes a deep, labored breath before he speaks again.
“I know you’re worried about me. But my dad used to say, ‘No matter what happens—trust the wind.’ It’s part of us. It’s our kin. And that draft—for whatever reason—has decided it needs to protect you. So trust it. Let me deal with Raiden.”
“You don’t know what he’ll do to you.”
“I have a pretty good idea.” He uncovers the hole in his shoulder again. “But I can take it, Audra. Raiden’s already attacked my mother. Murdered my unborn sister. Turned my father into a Living Storm and forced me to kill him. And I’m still here. Still fighting. I’m stronger than Raiden. He did all of this to me, and still has no idea you taught me that command—and he never will.”
The words bury me in shame.
I’d forgotten I taught him Westerly.
Only one word—and I didn’t even tell him what it means. I didn’t want to trigger the breakthrough and put him in more danger.
And now he’s bruised and bloody, facing who knows how many more rounds of torture. Yet he has no doubt that he can bear through it, while I’m wallowing in self-pity.
“I can’t believe you know more Westerly than I do,” I whisper.
“Gotta love the irony, right? But it’s good. It gives us an advantage. We know that Raiden has his suspicions backward.”
I don’t understand how he can stay so positive, but I try to draw from his confidence.