She sits up and scoops more water into her cup. I drink obediently, and watch her calm, competent movements. I’ve seen those movements before, but my brain still refuses to make the connection, and I let it go. I have more important things to think about. She’s risked death today, not just for me, but for each of the prisoners here. I can’t quite understand it.

“Why help?” I mouth to her, though I feel the answer may be too lengthy to share like this.

She dips her cloth in the remaining water and scrubs gently at my face, using her hair once more as a cloak to mask her face from any observers.

“Things must change,” she says so softly, I barely catch it. “Someone needs to lead that change. We think it will be you.”

I’m stunned into silence, and wait a beat too long to ask her the other questions that burn within me. She’s already leaving, shutting my door behind her as if she hasn’t just ignited a firestorm of speculation within me, when I remember where I’ve seen her.

Thom’s Tankard. Wiping down tables while acting as a lookout for Drake and his men.

Drake’s group has moved from trying to recruit me as a member to nominating me as a leader? I’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt my ribcage. I’m injured, locked in a dungeon, and the only people I still care about are far away from Baalboden. What part of that description makes me fit to lead a revolution here?

Not that I’m not sympathetic to their cause. The citizens of Baalboden desperately need change. I’d been wrong to think my mother’s death meant the price of dissent was too high to pay. Silent acquiescence in the face of tyranny is no better than outright agreement. My mother knew that. Now, so do I.

But revolution and change must wait their turn.

Rachel needs me.

Melkin needs to be stopped.

Jared needs to be found.

And the Commander needs to be brought to justice.

If I have to lead a revolution to accomplish that, so be it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

RACHEL

We’ve been traveling the Wasteland for a week now. Four days ago, we skirted a Tree People village without incident. Not that I’ve ever known Tree People to get involved with the affairs of those who leave them alone, but we can’t take any chances. I never used to understand why people would choose to build houses in the trees in hopes of avoiding the Cursed One rather than live beneath the protection of a city-state. Now, I know that sometimes the protection of a city-state comes at too high a cost.

Two days ago, I began recognizing markers along the way and knew we were back on the path to Rowansmark. The forest has changed and thickened, easing out of pin oak trees and into silver maples interspersed with pine. The morning dew hangs just as heavy in the air as it does on the ground, and large fields of waist-high grass ripple sluggishly beneath a half-hearted breeze.

Melkin and I have fallen into a rhythm. He leads, beating back the worst of the undergrowth, and I sweep the ground behind us to cover our tracks. I hunt for our dinner each night, and he makes the fire and handles the cooking. We speak only when necessary during the day, but at night, as we eat rabbit, boar, or turkey, we talk. Though we rarely discuss anything personal, it’s beginning to feel like I’m traveling with a friend.

Though I never forget that our friendship could be his way of trying to hold me to the Commander’s orders, and when I catch him watching me with something dark and brooding in his eyes, I know he feels the same.

As we make camp again for the night, I can see he misses his wife. It’s carved in miserable lines on his face, bracketing his mouth with tension that refuses to ease.

I miss Logan, too. More than I thought I would.

The slap of humiliation I once felt every time I thought of him is gone. In its place, I see Logan sacrificing sleep so he could finish the tracking device. Offering to teach me to use the Switch and helping me hold on to the good memories I have of Dad. Drawing his sword against the Commander, despite overwhelming odds, to protect me. Logan is the lodestone I cling to when grief over Oliver and fear for Dad threaten to rob me of what little hope I have left.

Something in me has awakened and responds only to Logan. I lie sleepless long after Melkin begins to snore and press my fingers to my lips as I remember Logan leaning in, his breath fanning my face, his eyes locked on my mouth. A delicious ache pulses through me. I feel like a stranger waking up in my own skin—aware of every inch. Heat runs through my veins, both exhilarating and terrifying.

Exhilarating because every part of me tingles with life.

But terrifying because beneath the longing lies an inescapable truth: If he is my lodestone, it’s because somehow in the last few weeks I’ve started to rely on him. Lean on him. Need him. My heart pounds a little faster as the realization sinks in.

I need Logan.

Not because I need saving. Not because he could plan our way out of this. But because on some basic, soul-deep level within me, he is the solid ground beneath my feet. The one who will move mountains to keep his promises. The one who looks at me and sees.

I can’t imagine my life without him.

Everywhere I look, he’s there. A constant thread binding my past, my present, and the future I want so badly to have with him.

With him.

My eyes fly open.

I’m in love with Logan.

Not the way I thought I was two years ago, when I offered him my heart. That love was uncomplicated and innocent, designed for a simple life. The love consuming me now is fierce and absolute—forged in a crucible of loss and united by our shared strength.