I didn't leave anything out.
Maybe I should have.
Maybe it would've let me keep a little of my pride to skip over the fact that I couldn't shift anymore, or that I'd given up hope, or that I hadn't resisted what Grey and his people had done to me in stoic silence, or with dry, cutting, sophisticated commentary à la James Bond.
And maybe it was more than a little petty of me that I took a horrid, vengeful pleasure in watching Ian's eyes widen and his fists clench, claws extending even though he was clearly trying to keep them under control.
To see Jace grow grimmer and grimmer, his shoulders so rigid they were like boulders. To see Landon turn away, swiping under his eyes to try to brush off the tears.
I didn't want their pity; it made me sick. But their guilt, their remorse? I really wanted that, so much that it made me even sicker.
Maybe I wasn't Jared—their Jared. I felt like I was, and I wanted to scream at them that I was, that they were wrong.
