“She helped me more than I ever helped her,” he replied. “And I repaid that debt by killing her.”

“You may have struck the blow, but it was our enemies – yours, mine, and hers – who killed her,” I said, clenching the damp fabric of my skirt. “Reagan may have held the debt, but we both know she was acting under orders. He could have sent anyone after me – there are men and women aplenty who would kill for the promise of gold. Esmeralda was chosen, forced to do this against her will, because she was our ally. She was sent to kill me because even if she failed, the action would still land a very painful blow.”

“My father didn’t do this,” Tristan said softly. “He wouldn’t send someone to kill you.”

I peeled the black lace gloves off my hands, letting them fall to the floor. With one finger, I traced the silver marks painted across my fingers. “I know.” I swallowed hard. “I will never claim to understand your father or to support his methods, but I know with certainty that he wants you to succeed him. This was Angoulême’s doing.”

“Yes.” There was a faint shake to Tristan’s voice. “And that he was willing to make such a bold move makes me very afraid of what is happening in my home.”

A home he felt powerless to protect. The weight of his guilt made my shoulders sag – not only for Esmeralda’s death, but also for having left his friends, his family, his entire people to fend against the worst. Picking my way around the furniture, I made my way toward him.

“Cécile, there’s something I have to tell you.” The words came out in a rush and I froze.

“I didn’t have to kill her.” His voice was ragged. “I could have stopped her just as easily as I stopped that bullet.”

The thought had occurred to me, but I refused to make him feel worse by saying so. “You had only seconds to act before she fired her pistol. You were only trying to save my life.”

The only sound was the crackle of the fire, his lack of response making my stomach clench as I realized this confession was not over. “Tristan?”

“I had time enough to think.” He turned his head, revealing his profile and the motion of his throat as he swallowed. “I had a barrier in place to keep you safe the moment I saw the pistol. But…” The muscles in his shoulders tensed. “I thought it was her.”

Shock stole all speech from my throat. There was only one her.

“I could tell it was a woman,” he continued. “I knew what I was doing when I struck. I was trying to kill Anushka.”

I felt as though time had stopped and I had stepped away from my body. Like I was watching a girl who was not me listen to words she had not expected to hear. After everything he had said and done to keep from breaking the trolls free, faced with the chance to end it all, he’d taken it. Without hesitation. I did not know what to feel. I felt everything.

“Do you wish you’d let that horse and carriage take you home now?”

The question was much larger than that. He wasn’t asking whether I regretted coming up to his room with him tonight, he was asking me if I regretted our relationship. Whether I regretted loving him.

Closing my eyes, I let our time together pan across my eyes, right from the moment we’d met. Even though I’d been terrified and in pain, I’d thought he was handsome. Except that wasn’t even a strong enough word: he was beautiful in a way that was almost painful. Flawless in a way that seemed surreal, like a figment of imagination. So perfect, it was off-putting, because while it was something that could be worshipped, it wasn’t something that could be touched or loved. He’d been snide, nasty, and wicked, and I’d loathed him. Except even then I’d sensed something wasn’t right, that there was a mismatch between what I was seeing and hearing and what I felt. It was this mismatch that made him captivating, and even as I was grasping for ways to escape, the need to know more about him had lurked in my heart.

That need had only been compounded when we’d been bonded; the veneer of his exterior cracked to reveal a young man so different from the one he pretended to be. A Tristan whom I was uniquely privileged to know. He became a puzzle I needed to solve – the key, I’d thought, to my freedom.

Except solving him hadn’t relinquished his hold on me. I remembered the moment in the empty palace stables where the truth had come out, when I’d finally seen the emotions filling my head written across his face, and the veneer had fallen away entirely. It was then I stopped seeing the troll and began to see him. He became my friend, my ally – and the leader of something I could believe in.

I’d admired him, and yes, lusted after him, but then I’d fallen. Fallen for a man who felt too much and took on too much, who believed if only he worked tirelessly and ceaselessly enough, that he could improve the lives of an entire race of people. And I’d had that depth of passion turned on me – seen it in his eyes, felt it in my heart. He loved me, and I loved him. And I’d love him as long as I lived, and if my soul endured, I’d love him for eternity.

“I forgive you,” I whispered, closing the distance between us and falling to my knees at his back, and I saw then that the damage on the outside matched that within. I didn’t know why seeing it made my heart hurt as badly as it did, because I’d witnessed the torture inflicted upon him. I suppose part of me was so confident in his strength that I’d believed nothing could mark him permanently. How wrong I’d been.