She shakes her head and whimpers. I slowly extend the hand that doesn’t hold her knife.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a hollow offering in the face of what she’s been through, and I don’t intend for it to be the best I can do. But for now, I just need to get her home. I can make a plan from there.

She doesn’t respond.

“I don’t know what he did to you, but killing someone else isn’t going to make it better. I’m going to help you up. That’s all I’m doing. Can I touch you?”

She looks down at herself and starts shaking again. I pull her to her feet, though I’m not sure she can stand on her own now. She’s trembling uncontrollably, and I want to rip the Commander into tiny little pieces and light each of them on fire. I tuck her knife in my belt and scoop up the parcel Mrs. Angeles gave me.

“I’m taking you home,” I say, though I no longer hope for a reply. “I’ll figure out what to do once we get there.”

And I will. I have to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

RACHEL

My throat is raw from the screaming I unleashed at the men in the alley, and I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know what’s happened to me, and I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet. Logan doesn’t seem inclined to talk either, or maybe he’s realized I’m not going to answer. We walk side by side through Country Low while a breeze plucks at newborn leaves and tangles in my hair, and the shadow of the Wall slowly stretches east.

When we reach his cottage, I leave him standing in the living area while I lock myself in the bathroom, ignite the pitch-coated logs beneath the water pump, and strip out of my garments.

I don’t light a lantern, though there’s no window in this room. The glow from the logs is enough to for me to find my way around. I don’t want to see.

The pump whistles softly to tell me the water is warm enough, and I release the handle to drain its contents into the carved stone tub resting in the center of the room. I slide into the bath and sink beneath its skin. It’s quiet here, the outside noise muffled and distorted by the water around me. I pretend I’m in a cocoon, asleep, the world passing me by, and when I wake, all of this will have been a very bad dream.

The water is cooling when I finally decide to shampoo my hair and attack my skin with soap. I scrub until it hurts, but I’m still convinced the crimson stains me deep within where no soap will ever reach.

The memory of Oliver, holding my hand with icy fingers while his life spilled from his chest, is more than I can bear.

I comb through my water-heavy hair and it hangs down my back, sticking to my skin in damp strands. Pulling on a long yellow tunic and a pair of leggings to match, I open the door just in time to see Logan crumple up a thick piece of paper and throw it down. He slams his fist onto the kitchen table and swears viciously.

I cross my arms over my chest and move to curl up at the end of the couch. He meets my gaze with misery and fury in his eyes.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, and I know he’s asking about more than food and water.

I shake my head, but he stands and brings me a cup of water and a plate of goat cheese, dried apple slices, and a hunk of oat bread as if I never responded. I take a bite of apple to please him, but I can’t taste it.

He eases himself onto the couch, closer to me than to the other end, but still keeping a careful distance between us. He’s moving slowly, as if afraid he’ll spook me at any moment.

I want to tell him about Oliver. I want to open my mouth, let it all come gushing out, and find solace in weeping. But the words I need to rip Logan’s world to pieces won’t come. Instead, I take a tiny bite of cheese and concentrate on chewing.

“I need to talk to you. It’s okay if you don’t want to respond, but I need to know you’re listening,” he says quietly, and waits.

I swallow the cheese, take a sip of water, and set it all on the floor at my feet. I owe him this.

I owed Oliver too.

The thought draws blood, and my eyes slowly fill with tears. I’m tired. So tired. I ache, inside and out, and nothing seems simple anymore. Nothing seems right.

“The Commander put you into the Claiming ceremony tomorrow,” Logan says, waving his hand toward the crumpled up paper. His voice is hard. “You don’t need to worry, Rachel. I’m going to Claim you. I won’t leave your side. He’ll never get a chance to touch you again.”

His expression is haunted, and I know he blames himself for today. I don’t know how to comfort him when nothing soft and conciliatory lives inside me anymore.

Something catches my eye, and I turn to see a deep-blue silk dress encrusted with glittering diamonds hanging beside the fireplace. Logan follows my gaze.

“Along with a letter demanding your presence on the Claiming stage tomorrow, he sent a dress. They were both in the parcel Mrs. Angeles gave me.” His fingers curl into a fist.

Beneath my grief, uncushioned by my shock, a hard kernel of anger takes root and burrows in. I failed Oliver today, yes. But I don’t have to fail him again. A debt is owed for his life, and I intend to pay it.

I glance around the cottage and find my knife, cleaned and polished, lying on the kitchen table, inches from the paper announcing my new status as a participant in the Claiming. I want to hold the weapon, to feel like I have some way to keep the promises I’ve made to myself, but I don’t know how Logan feels about giving it to me.

“You can’t attack everyone who pulls a weapon,” he says when he sees me gazing at my knife.