Broken Throne (Red Queen #4.5)(119)

“It doesn’t matter now, of course,” I say. “My mother wasn’t the only one who took from me—you took something from me too.”

Even the hint of her makes him bristle.

“I didn’t take Mare,” he snarls, rounding on me. I shift before he can grab my arm, his fingers barely brushing the sleeve of my jacket.

I grin up at him, speaking gently, my voice soft and taunting. “It didn’t surprise me. You were used to it, having whatever you wanted. Seeing only what you wanted to see. In the end, I realized you knew what was happening to me, what Mother was doing. It was in pieces, in slow shifts, but you still saw it—and you did nothing to stop her.” Tsking like a scolding teacher, I shake my head. “Long before you knew what a monster I was, you did monstrous things too.”

Cal stares at me, eyes full of accusation. And longing. This time he takes me by surprise when he steps closer, and I fall back on my heels. “Did your mother destroy you entirely? Is there anything left of you?” he asks, searching my face. “Anything that isn’t hers?”

He won’t tell me what he’s looking for, but I know. Despite the walls my mother built around me, Cal always manages to weasel through. His hunting eyes fill me with sorrow. Even now, he thinks there’s something in me left to save—and to mourn. There is no escaping our fate, not for either of us. He must sentence me to die. And I must accept death. But Cal wants to know if he’s killing his brother along with the monster—or if the brother died long ago.

Cut for cut, my mother whispers, louder now, taunting. The words slice like a razor.

It would hurt him deeply, wound him forever, if I let him glimpse what little is left of me. That I’m still here, in some forgotten corner, just waiting to be found. I could ruin him with one glance, one echo of the brother he remembers. Or I could free him of me. Make the choice for him. Give my brother one last proof of the love I can no longer feel, even if he never knows it.

I weigh the choice in my heart, each side heavy and impossible. For one terrifying moment, I don’t know what to do.

Despite all my mother’s fine work, I can’t find it in myself to land that final blow.

I drop my gaze, forcing a detached smirk to my lips.

“I would do it all again, Cal,” I tell him, lying with such grace. It feels easy, after so many years behind a mask. “If given the choice to go back, I would let her change me. I would watch you kill him. I’d send you to the arena. And I’d get it right. I’d give you what you deserve. I’d kill you now if I could. I’d do it a thousand times.”

My brother is simple, easy to manipulate. He sees only what lies in front of him, only what he can understand. The lie does its job well. His eyes harden, that undying ember in him almost extinguished entirely. One hand twitches, wanting to form a fist. But the Silent Stone affects him too, and even if he had the strength to make me burn, he could not.

“Good-bye, Maven,” Cal says, his voice broken. He isn’t really speaking to me.

The farewell is for another boy, lost years ago, before he became what I am now. Cal lets go of him, the Maven I was. The Maven I still am, somewhere inside, unable or unwilling to step into the light.

This will be the last time we speak to each other alone. I can feel that in my marrow. If I see him again, it will be before the throne, or beneath the cold steel of the executioner’s blade.

“I look forward to the sentencing,” I drawl in reply, watching him flee the room. The door slams behind him, shaking paintings in their frames.

Despite all the difference between us, we have this in common. We use our pain to destroy.

“Good-bye, Cal,” I say to no one.

Weakness, my mother answers.





Cal

Julian says I don’t have to start this with “dear diary” or anything official. Still, this feels stupid. And a waste of time. My days aren’t exactly empty.

Not to mention this whole thing is a security risk.

But Julian certainly knows how to nag.

He knows I’m not talking enough about, well, anything. Not with him, not with Mare. She isn’t exactly forthcoming either, but at least she has her sister, her family, Farley, Kilorn, and whoever else she needs when she does decide to say something. I’m nowhere near as lucky. All I have is her and Julian, and I guess Nanabel. Not that I really want to talk to my grandmother about my mental state, or my girlfriend, or the trauma of the past year.

My mother had a diary too. It didn’t stop Elara from doing . . . what she did. But it seemed to ground her, in the beginning. Maybe it will help me too.

I’m not exactly good at writing. I certainly read a lot, but it hasn’t rubbed off. And I really don’t want another liability for the Nortan States. Things are precarious enough.

Or am I just being vain, thinking that anything I scribble down could somehow threaten the reconstruction? Probably.

How does anyone do this? Journals are impossible. I feel idiotic.



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Mare wasn’t kidding about the Paradise Valley. It’s gorgeous and dangerous. We had to wait for a storm to clear out before we could get up here. Had to burn a hole in a snowdrift just to get to the cabin door. And we heard wolves all night long. I wonder if I can lure any to the cabin with dinner scraps?



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