The Broken Ones (The Malediction Trilogy 0.6)(69)

“How many times since have you regretted that it did not?”

The mask of composure that he always wore, that I’d never seen him without, fell away, revealing a white-hot fury that bordered on madness. But it was gone so quickly that it was almost a thing imagined.

Rising to his feet, the Duke d’Angoulême directed his game boards to their stand, then picked up his cane. “I protected Pénélope. Kept her safe. Gave her nearly everything her heart desired, and when I did not, it was because to do so would put her in jeopardy.”

“You threatened and terrified her,” I spat, furious that he was pretending his actions had anything to do with Pénélope’s welfare. “And it takes more than pretty dresses to make up for a life devoid of love.”

“Love?” He laughed, and my skin crawled with the bitterness in it. “Tell me, Marc, how well has love served her?”

Before I could move, his magic lashed around me, binding my legs and arms with such ferocity that I thought they would break, casting aside any doubt over who was the superior power. Magic dragged my hand upward until my gaze was bent upon my bonding marks, the tips having turned black.

“She is dying because of you,” he said, and I couldn’t hold back my groan of pain as his magic ratcheted tighter.

“You forced her into it,” I said from between my teeth. “How can you possibly claim to care about her if you’d do this to her? You might as well have slit her throat yourself!”

“She wasn’t supposed to die, you fool!” He screamed the words into my face, then clamped his teeth shut, taking a second to master his control before repeating in a cool tone, “She wasn’t supposed to die. You were supposed to love her and bond her. And when I finally caught you rallying the half-bloods and turned you over to the King, instead of falling on your sword to protect your cousin’s involvement with the sympathizers, you’d betray him to keep Pénélope safe.”

I stared at him, refusing to react lest I give him the proof he sought. But my horror at his brilliance made me sick, because what would I have done? Who would I have chosen? I didn’t know.

As though reading my thoughts, he said, “Pénélope or Tristan? Pénélope or Tristan? The innocent or the politician?” He leaned closer to me. “How unfortunate that we’ll never get to find out.”

“You could have left her alone,” I said, knowing the words were weak. “Tried to help her survive.”

“There is no way for her to survive, and no one understands that better than I do,” he replied. “You carved her fate in stone. I merely adjusted my strategy. What you fail to understand, Marc, is that the achievement of great things requires great sacrifices.”

What I understood was that this was what made him evil. This was what made him far more dangerous than any of us had realized. Not that he cared for nothing, but that he was willing to sacrifice even that which he loved to achieve his ends. “I’d rather achieve nothing than live knowing I’d had a chance to save someone I loved and hadn’t taken it.”

“I know,” he responded. “And in the end, you will have failed at both.”

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?” I hissed, trying to cling to my hate when all I felt was the bubbling of guilt rising in my throat.

“Tempting,” he said. “But the fact of the matter is, to kill you before she died would be mercy. And I want you to suffer.”





Chapter Thirty-One





Pénélope





I knew he was with me without opening my eyes. Might have known, even without the bond, because Marc’s presence was always a comfort to me. A light in the darkness helping me find my way when otherwise I’d be lost. That hadn’t changed.

And it never would.

“You came back.” I hadn’t intended to whisper, but my words were no louder than an exhalation.

He straightened where he sat next to me on the bed, expression full of the alarm that was reflected in my heart. “Did you think I wouldn’t? Pénélope–”

I squeezed his hand, forestalling him. “I didn’t.”

But his movement allowed me to see beyond to where Tristan stood in the shadows of the corner, shoulders slumped and hands shoved in his pockets as though he were cold. I met his gaze, and he nodded once, the air around him shimmering with magic, blocking away sound.

“He won’t leave,” Marc muttered.

“Good.” I coughed, my throat painfully dry. “You’ll need him.”

“I don’t–” He broke off, shaking his head with irritation that he could not deny that truth. It was no small relief for me, because I didn’t think I could stand to know that I’d broken their friendship and their camaraderie beyond repair. Still, the irritation couldn’t hide the poisonous weight of his guilt that twisted through my skull. I said, “You’ve spoken with my father.”

His chin jerked up and down.

“And he has done the same to you as he has to me: made you feel culpable. Made you feel regret.”

“Yes.”

I hadn’t believed it possible to hate my father more. I’d been wrong. Our child was dead, and as though it were not enough that my death was certain and Marc’s nearly so, my father had felt the need to poison what was good. To make us regret all that we had done. To make us feel guilty for each other’s fate. “Damn him,” I whispered. “He twists the truth into the worst sort of lies.”