“You’re not the worst fencer I’ve ever seen.” I smiled, knowing this backhanded comment would trigger his ego.
He snorted and flashed a self-satisfied smirk. “Arden, please, don’t be absurd,” he chided. “I’m the best.”
I knew his smugness wasn’t entirely related to his fencing performance, but rather to the fact that he had successfully shaken me from my wallowing.
An almost imperceptible wave rippled through the air, warping their faces, and when I blinked, I was shocked to see Casimir sitting so close, his lips tight and his eyes narrowed. With a gasp, I wrenched my wrist from his grasp, nearly falling off the bench in my haste to get away from him. What was worse, from the wary look on Casimir’s face, he seemed to expect my reaction. I raised a hand to my cheek and was surprised to find it wet.
It wasn’t real.
Casimir was watching me carefully. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“I—” I couldn’t form the words to express what I was feeling, so instead, I spluttered, “What the fuck was that?” I stared down at my hands and realized they were trembling.
His mouth quirked to one side at my colorful language, but he spoke calmly. “I used a glamour to access your memories. Don’t worry, I didn’t expect you to fight me off the first time.”
But I hadn’t fought it at all. I’d simply succumbed to the memory, to the state of mind I’d been in. Everything he’d told me leading up to the training had immediately ebbed from my mind as soon as I’d beheld August’s face in the memory.
“I need a minute,” I said, closing my eyes.
Though I didn’t want to admit it to Casimir, reliving the memory of that day reminded me of everything I admired—hadadmired—about August. He was the only person who had known how to shake me out of my despondency, how to take the rage and grief I was feeling and forge it into something razor sharp. But I was also angry. Angry at Casimir for violating my mind and witnessing a deeply private moment between August and me. And somehow, this violation felt worse than that night he’d eavesdropped on my conversation with August in the Labyrinth.
“Farrow?” Casimir said.
I opened my eyes in time to see him surveying me with furrowed brows. Tentatively, he reached out a hand as if to comfort me, but quickly reconsidered and drew back.
Hot tears sprang to my eyes. “You—” I rasped, the accusation on the edge of my tongue. “Why, out of all the memories, did you choose that one?” I met his open gaze and saw reflected there my own vulnerability. Myweakness.
I gathered he’d expected me to react with irritation, perhaps even anger—but from the way he was looking at me now… I wondered if he hadn’t quite anticipated this. Hadn’t imagined that the memory he’d stumbled upon would shatter me so thoroughly.
“I warned you this would not be easy...” he replied, his expression like granite. “What do you think will happen next time you see Devereaux, if you aren’t prepared? If you don’t learn how to resist him?”
His exasperation only fueled my contempt, my temper in danger of exploding.
“You lied to me,” I shouted. “You don’t just create visions or conjure emotions—you violate people’s minds!”
“And what does Devereaux do?” he retorted, rising to his feet to tower over me. “What might he force you to do, the next time he bends your body to his will?”
The flecks of gold I’d noticed earlier seemed to gutter into shadow as he averted his gaze.
“But if your pride is more important to you than that—if you’d rather just give up?—”
“Fuck. You,” I spat, packing every syllable with venom. “You didn’t warn me about what memories you might access.” I rose to my feet. If only he’d had the decency to warn me, I might’ve been more prepared. “Just like you didn’t tell me that you were going to burn your name onto my fucking thigh!”
He had the nerve to roll his eyes. “You love to bring that up.”
“Maybe,” I ground out, “Because it’s stillthere.”
His eyes dipped to my thigh, where he knew his name was concealed beneath my jeans. “Quit changing the subject, Farrow. I did warn you that the glamours wouldn’t be pleasant. Besides, I hardly think the memory we used was particularly gruesome?—”
“That’s not the point! That wasn’t for you to see! It was private!”
I was furious, and the way his eyes were boring into wasn’t helping me regain control of my breathing. I couldn’t block out his scent, like salt and leather, and something indiscernible, like the mist that rises after a hard summer rain. It overwhelmed my senses, making me dizzy. I fought to shut him out, focusing on my anger. I hated him for the broken shards he’d dragged up from the depths of my shattered heart. My head ached with the effort.
“You want to know something?” I bit out. “Every day that passes, I wish more and more I’d never met you.”
His returning smile was cold. “If we’d never met, you’d likely already be dead, Farrow.”
For a moment, his words bludgeoned me into silence. Collecting myself, I countered, “There are worse things than dying.”