“No, we aren’t.”

We circle the base of a wide oak, its trunk gnarled and scarred, and head into a copse of pine trees. Willow tree-leaps ahead of us until she’s nothing but a distant flash of movement in the stillness of the forest. Quinn stays behind us, the occasional rustle of leaves the only reminder of his presence. The air warms gently as we walk, though the shadows still cling to their predawn chill.

“What happened to Melkin?”

“What part of ‘we aren’t going to talk about this’ is difficult to understand?”

His voice is gentle. “How can I help you, if you won’t tell me what happened?”

What happened? I felt hope. Burning, brilliant hope that turned to ash beside my father’s grave. I then killed my traveling companion for the crime of wanting desperately to save his wife. And I can’t feel anything but icy silence for all of it.

We leave the sharp-scented pine behind and enter a field of deep green grass spiked with wildflowers. Willow is already in the center of the field, an arrow notched, her head constantly swiveling, searching for threats. The sun is a fierce, unblinking eye above us, and I feel flushed from its heat.

“I know he was sent into the Wasteland to kill you and return the package to the Commander. His wife had the cell across from mine. She’s pregnant. That’s enough motivation to sway almost any man into doing the unthinkable.”

I can’t stand the heat prickling against my skin and reach to unfasten my cloak.

“What happened to your hands?”

The fastening sticks, and I tug at it desperately. He reaches out and captures my fingers in his.

“You have bloodstains on your hands.” His touch is gentle.

I want to slap his hand away and hear him condemn me. Tell me he’s changed his mind. Tell me he doesn’t love me now that he knows what I’ve done.

But he doesn’t know. Because I haven’t told him.

“Please,” he says.

I take a deep breath, hold on to those four beautiful words for one more moment—I love you, Rachel—and then I tell him.

“I killed him.” My voice sounds cold and empty as it echoes across the field of wildflowers. His hand tightens on mine.

“Why?” he asks. There’s no censure in his voice.

“Because I thought he was attacking me.”

“Then it was self-defense.”

“No.” Up ahead, water glitters beneath the morning sun, a piercing beauty that hurts my eyes. “No, it wasn’t.”

“Rachel, he was tasked with killing you once you found the package. It was self-defense.”

“He wasn’t going to kill me. I thought he was, but he wasn’t. He was trying to disarm me. Steal the package and leave me behind. Alive.” The words make me sick. I thought I’d feel relief to have it out in the open, but I don’t.

He’s quiet, though his fingers are still wrapped around mine as we approach the diamond-bright surface of a lake. Willow has tossed all but her undertunic aside and is wading into the water, her bow and arrow still clutched in her hands.

“If you thought he was trying to kill you, defending yourself is understandable, Rachel. I would’ve done the same.”

“No, you would’ve stopped.” I whirl to face him, suddenly desperate to make him see. “You’d have kept control. I know you.”

Beneath the steadiness of his gaze, pain lingers. “Like I kept control when the Commander backhanded you during the Claiming ceremony?”

“That’s not the same.”

“I fail to see the difference.” He steps close to me. “You were afraid. You knew you couldn’t let him take the device and bring it to the Commander. Instinct kicked in, and you did what you had to do.”

I shake my head. “You would’ve seen the signs, and stopped.”

“Sweetheart, you haven’t been reading people right since Oliver.”

My voice is a rough whisper. “And Dad.”

We’re at the edge of the lake. Logan stops walking and faces me. “What about your dad?”

The words won’t come. Maybe they don’t exist. I strain to feel it. To let it cut me so I can cry. So I can share grief with the one person who will understand the depth of what I’ve lost.

“Please don’t.” His voice is quiet. Pained. His fingers curl around mine and force them open, and I realize I’ve clenched my fist so tight, my broken nails have gouged four crescents of crimson into my palm. My blood mixes with Melkin’s, and I can’t look away.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Jared’s dead.”

I look at him.

“I’m so sorry.” He drags me against him, and I lean into his shoulder.

“Why aren’t you crying?” He pulls back and cups my face in his hands. Pain is carved into his face.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” He’s rubbing my cheeks with his thumbs as if he can transfer his living, breathing grief into my skin, shattering the icy silence within me into something he can understand.

I can’t allow that. If I grieve now, how will I ever find my way out again in time to keep my promises?

“Because there will be nothing left of me if I do.” I look at my hands, bleeding and bloodstained, the dirt from my father’s grave mixing with the dirt from Melkin’s in the creases. “And because I don’t deserve it. I deserve to bleed.”