Chapter 8 · She Remembers the Knife

Mara's hand was already on the blade before the archive door sealed behind them.

Cass turned, breathing hard, and froze. The knife was out. Six inches of steel her mother's last letter said never to trust. Don't let Cass Veyr reach midnight. The ink was still crisp on the page she'd shoved into her jacket, and the boy in front of her was the reason her mother never came home.

She didn't ask. She just moved.

Cass hit the stone wall with his shoulders, and her forearm pressed across his collarbone before he could get a word out. The tip of the knife rested under his jaw, right where the pulse hammered. His eyes went wide. No charm this time. No smirk.

"Mara—"

"Shut up." Her voice came out steady. She was good at steady. "You knew. This whole time, you knew."

He swallowed, and she felt the movement against her wrist. He smelled like old paper and sweat and that expensive soap rich boys pretended wasn't expensive. She hated that she noticed. Hated the way his breath was coming fast and shallow, same as hers.

"I didn't," he said. Quiet. Careful. "I swear I didn't.