Unmade (Unborn #4) - Amber Lynn Natusch Page 0,44
You have to see that.” When I said nothing, he stopped and turned to glare at me. “You do see that, don’t you?”
“While I do not wish for it to be true, her words, when objectively analyzed, bear consideration.”
“They’re bullshit,” he argued. “She doesn’t know Celia.”
“And neither do I,” I countered. “To one not emotionally invested, it could appear as though she arrived at a time of great duress and lured me to the Hallowed Gates, where I was immediately put into a room and left there—a room I had to later escape because it was magically locked down by some force or another. She never returned as she said she would. So either something happened to her, or she preyed upon my emotions to deliver me to my incarceration, at best. At worst, my death.”
“No way,” he said, resuming his pacing. “There’s no way Celia would do that.”
“She is a warrior, is she not? A cunning leader capable of making difficult if not impossible decisions?”
He looked over his shoulder and snarled. “Yes.”
“Then is it not possible that, after all this time, she has realized the potential threat I pose? And, for the greater good, sought to neutralize that threat?”
“Yes, it’s possible, but she wouldn’t—”
“You cannot know that, Oz. You no longer know her as you once did.”
“And you never knew her at all,” he said, voice cold as ice. The moment those words escaped him, his expression softened and he walked over to me, anger in check. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“You said it because it is true,” I replied, shoulders squared and chin high. “I cannot argue your sentiment. I do not know my mother, which is why I can see the potential truth in Persephone’s words.”
“But if you did know your mother,” he argued, stopping before me, “you would see how ridiculous they are.” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “If you knew her as I did…”
“But I cannot,” I said, my voice soft and gentle. “Not unless you are willing to show me.”
Silence fell between us. “Do I really need to?” he asked. “Or could you just trust me?”
I contemplated that question for a moment. Could I trust his assessment of my mother? Could I trust that he had my best interest in mind when he argued against Persephone’s theory?
The answer seemed so obvious, and yet not.
“Would you bet your life on it?” I asked, scouring his face for any shred of doubt. Any sign of hesitation.
“Yes, I would, because I’m already betting yours.”
“Then I guess it is settled.”
“What is?”
“My mother is still missing, and Persephone is still a meddlesome bitch.”
He watched as the corner of my mouth curled, then laughed. “Sometimes I have no idea what to make of you.”
I walked over to him, only stopping once our bodies nearly touched. “And the rest?”
His eyes flared with something that looked like anger, and his jaw clenched tight.
“The rest of the time I can feel exactly who and what you are deep in my bones, like you are as much a part of me as I am myself.”
“And this angers you?”
He shook his head back and forth, a slow, calculated movement, only once. “Definitely not.”
“Good. I would not want to anger a Dark One. You have warned me off of doing so since you became one.” Another slight smile tugged at my lips. His eyes watched the movement like a snake waiting to strike.
“Glad to hear you’re listening.”
“I am capable of following your instructions—from time to time.”
Silence
“Because you trust me.” A statement, not a question.
“Something like that, I think.”
His head dipped lower, his nose grazing my hair. “I’m not sure I realized just how hot you admitting that would be.” His breath rustled my stray curls, and the slight movement sent chills down my spine. “Do you trust me enough to go play with those shackles downstairs? Or is it still too soon?”
I lifted my face to meet his, prepared to give him an answer, but a black cloud above drew my attention. An ominous, unnatural cloak of darkness plagued the sky, and I knew we had lingered at the Victorian too long. One of the many threats was upon us.
The Dark Ones had finally come.
17
They landed on the roof and the ground below, surrounding us just as Deimos and the Stealers had that fateful night when my wings had emerged and Oz had nearly died. The night he became a Dark One. Images of both ran through my mind until I forced