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His breathing turned ragged. But she swam
toward the surface again, light streaming off
her body like tendrils of clouds. It had nearly
vanished when she emerged.
“I’m sorry,” he managed to say.
Again, that angle of the head. “You have
nothing to be sorry for.”
He did, though. He’d added to her terror,
her desperation. He’d—
“If you had not planted that lie for Maeve,
if she had not told me, I don’t think we’d be
here right now,” she said.
He tried to rein in the twisting in his gut,
the urge to reach for her, to beg for her
forgiveness. Tried and tried.
She only asked, “What of the others?”
She didn’t know—couldn’t know how and
why and where they’d all parted ways. So
Rowan told her, as succinctly and calmly as
he could.