Page 63 of The Order of the Bitter Hunt

I pretend to rub a salve on his invisible wound, working with urgency

“I do not need to give a name.”

“No?”

“You must already know your father was the one to pierce my side, and he did it out of love for you.”

“If he truly loved me, he would not keep me from you.”

The words hit me. My father, the harm he’s caused, and my ignorance of it all—it smashes into my face.

Crying on command isn’t one of my talents, but I don’t need to force it this time. Red tears stream down my cheeks.

Jun’s fingers touch my cool skin, and he wipes my bloody tears without a care. The action isn’t in the script, and most wouldn’t want to touch my bloody cheek, but he doesn’t let it stop him.

He’s an actor, through and through.

Our eyes meet, and I swallow thickly, my chest heaving.

“Nothing can keep us apart.” His eyes flicker shut. “I will see you in the next life. Do not forget me.”

“No!” I press my hands harder against his side, looking up at the ceiling. “Henry! Return to me at once!” The words come out in a choked sob.

My hands lift to the heavens, a last-ditch effort at calling on the gods. “If there is a God, and if there are many, hear me now.I do not care what it takes. I will give my life, my soul, anything for you to return him to me. Please, give him life.” I choke out a sob, perhaps teetering toward melodrama. “Please!”

It takes a moment for me to realize what I’ve said. God.

I’ve never been able to say the word aloud. It’s difficult for a vampire, or even a demon, to do. We’re damned, and for as long as we feel it, we cannot voice the names of the gods and heaven above.

What does it mean that I can say it now?

“And scene!” Professor Connolly claps her hands together.

This is the point in the play where Ella—my character—sells her soul for her true love. It’s a classic tale, one told in countless productions, both paranormal and human. It would be an honor to play Ella, but alas…

It is not in the cards for me, and Charlotte will do a wonderful job.

I wipe the last of my tears and turn to our professor with a tentative smile.

“That was a superb performance,” she says. “Margaux, you’ve been working on refining your craft, and I can see it. In all your years, I have never seen you give such an emotional performance. Jun, your improvisation was wonderful as well. Following the mood of the scene is important, and you both managed it to perfection. But I would like to see more emotion from you next time, Jun. Perhaps Margaux can give you tips.”

The next group of students files to the stage, preparing for the upcoming scene.

I turn to Jun. “I wouldloveto give you tips.”

“I’m sure you would.” He sits upright. “Just don’t kill Charlotte to get close to me, all right?”

Jun stands, offering me his hand. I take it, and I realize I don’t need to go to those lengths. We’re already closer, whether or not we wish to be. Even after I stand, my hand remains in hisfor a moment, his heat melting my ice, and a genuine smile curls on my lips.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jun isn’t chasingafter me anymore.

We’re walking in the same direction after rehearsals, but he’s several feet behind me. I only know he’s there because of his hulking presence and the heavy sound of his footsteps.

The bag slung over my shoulder is light, but it feels heavier than it should, dragging me with each weighted step.

My skin is more than cold—it’s clammy, sweat collecting on my forehead.