I shiver beneath the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Start small. Pick up one piece of it, look it in the eye, and let yourself feel it. You won’t break, Rachel. You’ll heal.”

I shake my head. There’s so much. Where do I start?

He rubs his fingers lightly across my knuckles, and waits until I meet his eyes. “Sylph is dead, Rachel. She’s gone. You didn’t get enough time with her, and that isn’t fair. You loved her, and now she’s gone.”

My body trembles as his words slam against the silence within me, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in their wake. “No,” I say, as though by protesting, I can push the truth away from me.

“Yes. This is true, and you won’t be whole again until you learn how to live with the truth, even when it hurts. Sylph is dead.”

Grief surges out of the silence, hot and sharp and utterly devastating. It wraps around my chest, crushes the air from my lungs, and sinks into every inch of me. I open my mouth to give voice to the horrible keening locked deep inside of me, but the air won’t come. I’m choking on the memories. On the way her eyes lit up over every little thing. On the smile she gave to everyone else and the smile she reserved just for me.

“Oh.” Air rushes past my lips, and the grief becomes a creature of terrible strength determined to turn me inside out as tears pour down my face, and I sob her name.

His arms wrap around me as I cry and cry and cry. He doesn’t tell me it’s okay. He doesn’t try to calm me down. He just holds me and lets me cry.

When the knife-sharp edge of the grief eases into a dull ache, I find I can touch Sylph’s face in my memory without falling to pieces. It hurts, and maybe it always will, but by letting what she meant to me fill me up and spill me over, I find that a few of my ragged edges are a little smoother. A little less scary.

Quinn pats my back, and I realize I’m nearly in his lap with my face pressed to his chest, and I have no idea how long I’ve been there. I push away and wiggle back to the top of the cot, and someone clears his throat in the doorway. We glance over and Logan is there, looking like he did when he stood on the Claiming stage beside me, forced to give permission for another man to take me as his wife.

I open my mouth to explain, but he doesn’t even look at me as he says, “Quinn, a word please?” and then walks out of the room.

Chapter Fifty

LOGAN

I cross the hall, yank open a door, and barely contain myself while Quinn slowly walks in. Slamming the door shut behind him, I stalk to the other side of the room, where I have a better chance of keeping my fists off of him. I’m still reeling from the shock of learning who I really am, still wondering which of the people I’d come to trust and love knew the truth about me and which were in the dark, and I’m in no mood to keep my temper.

“Logan, that wasn’t what it looked like,” he says, but his voice is unsteady. Vulnerable. Very un-Quinn.

I think he’s lying.

I think the fascination he’s had with Rachel from the moment he laid eyes on her in the Wasteland has grown until . . . until what? Until he took advantage of her in her current state of distress? Distress she won’t even talk to me about?

Maybe he didn’t take advantage. Maybe she chose to go to him because somehow she can no longer talk to me.

I turn to face him. “I don’t know how to feel about you right now.”

His brow rises, but he remains quiet.

“On the one hand, I’m incredibly grateful to you for saving Rachel’s life. It almost cost you your own. I don’t know how to repay that.” I realize I’m advancing on him, and make myself stop halfway across the room. “On the other hand, I want to kill you.”

“You’re welcome. And please don’t.”

I wheel toward the closest wall and drive my fist into it. “How could you?”

“As I said before, it wasn’t what it looked like.” His voice is stronger now.

“She was in your lap. Your arms were around her.” Which is closer than I’ve been to her in days.

“How long were you standing there?” he asks.

“Long enough.”

He sounds like he’s coming closer. Which is a truly, spectacularly bad idea. I don’t care if he’s an expert in self-defense. I will destroy him.

“Logan, how long?”

“I don’t know. Twenty seconds? Thirty? Long enough.” I turn to face him, and vaguely realize blood is dripping from my knuckles. “I thought you had honor, Quinn.”

He looks like I’ve struck him. I don’t give him time to respond.

“Why do you think I asked you to help me protect her in the first place?” I ask.

“Because you figured out I know how to fight.”

“Because of the way you look at her.” My voice rises. “Because you’re always ready to step in. To fight. For her.”

“Wait a minute—”

“You love her. I get it. And because you do, you’re the perfect person to protect her. But if you think you can just . . .” I choke on the words. On the image of Quinn’s arms wrapped around Rachel while she snuggles against his chest. “I respect you. Don’t make me have to hurt you.”

His mouth drops open. “You think I’m in love with Rachel?”

I stare at him for a moment as the anger slowly fizzles and confusion takes its place. “Well, I did until you just said her name like that.”