I looked at her properly then.
Not the way you look at someone whose face you've seen a thousand times. The way you look at a thing you're trying to understand.
Cecilia Slatemark. Golden princess. Daughter of emperors. One day the Archwitch herself, a title that would make entire continents choose their words carefully. In the Saga, she'd ended up at Lucifer Windward's side, because in the Saga the author had handed everything worth having to Lucifer Windward.
I'd stopped caring what the Saga said a long time ago.
I wanted her. I wanted Rachel, and Seraphina, and Rose. All four of them. It was selfish, and greedy, and hypocritical, and I'd made my peace with every part of that. If the universe wanted a Hero who'd do the noble thing and choose one, it could go and look somewhere else.
I put my hand against her cheek. She was trembling, very slightly, and doing everything she could to hide it. Her crimson eyes held mine and dared me to look away first.
