“But—”

She shakes her head sharply, in substitution of putting up her hand. “I’m not done,” she says, and goes on. “And while we were in Italy, I was given the opportunity to know the real Niklas, to understand him, and to see through the rough exterior. And do you want to know what I saw?”

I nod subtly, and with reluctance.

She swallows, and glances briefly at the floor; when she raises her eyes again she is not looking at me anymore.

“I saw someone who, although he has done so much harm, still deserved forgiveness; someone who, in a way, is still innocent in all of this; someone who has so much love and compassion in his heart.” Her eyes find mine again and then she says, “I saw a man who…can still be saved.”

“And you are sorry for this?” I ask, confused.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel guilty,” she answers. “I feel guilty because…when I look at you…I don’t see the same.”

I turn my back to her so she does not see the pain in my face.

FOURTEEN

I step up to the bars, peer out at nothing, and I think about my brother, about Izabel’s compassion for him. And it does not take me long to think about Italy and why I sent Izabel there.

Once I vanquish the emotion from my face, I turn to see her again, ignoring the fact that the knife Artemis placed on the floor inside the cell is the same knife I used to slit Artemis’s throat. That is why Artemis said it was familiar. And that is also why I choose to ignore it, the meaning behind it.

“You are right about my brother,” I admit. “And you have nothing to be sorry for. Izabel, you and Niklas are…the same. You were both forced into this life; you were both against it, and wanted only a normal life; equally you both did what you had to do to survive; and you both followed me when you could have taken another path, a less-traveled road that leads to redemption, and not death. Izabel, like my brother, you are innocent in all of this; you still deserve forgiveness; you can still be saved.” I look beyond her momentarily, my mind captured by my thoughts. “I had hoped you would save him…I had hoped that you would save each other.”

The light has been stolen from my eyes. I don’t even see darkness anymore, only nothingness, and the two are not the same. No words, spoken or written, have ever hurt me so much, or cut so deeply; no confession or regret or truth could ever do the damage that this has done.

I feel gravity betray my body and I fall to my knees on the dirty stones; I sense Victor reaching for me, but he backs away when I deny him. “Don’t touch me,” I hear my voice say, but it sounds far off, as if coming from someone else’s mouth. “Don’t…”

Victor sits down on the floor, rests his back against the bars, draws his knees up and props his arms atop them. I can’t look at him, but somehow I can still see his every movement; even the sadness in his face. I see it. Somehow.

After what feels like a long time, after I feel in control of my voice again, I raise my head and look at him with tears in my eyes. “That’s why you sent me to Italy,” I say, pain altering my voice. “That’s why you said it had to be Niklas who went with us. It wasn’t because you knew he’d protect me, or that you knew you could trust him with me—you wanted us to be together.”

Victor sighs. Slowly, he nods.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I wanted to…save you both.”

“You wanted to save yourself,” I come back.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says, “it was not about saving me—it was about you first, my brother second, and then myself last.”

“You’re a liar.”

Victor blinks, stunned.

“I am sorry you feel that way,” he says. “But I am telling you the truth. I only wanted to save you.”

“From what?” I ask, with bitterness this time. “From your lifestyle? The dangers at every turn—I don’t believe you, Victor.”

“I wanted to save you from me,” he answers quickly. “I…wanted to save you from this.” He opens both hands, palms up, indicating this cage, this inevitable predicament.

And I look at those hands. I look at them, long and hard and symbolically, because in my heart I know they’re the hands that will end my life before this night is over.

He is telling the truth, after all: he wanted to save me from himself. Victor knew that one day he would have to kill me if our feelings did not change. Just like Marina. Just like Artemis. He is going to kill me…because he loves me. That’s why I’m still in these bonds. That’s why Victor has already told me that I’m going to die tonight. That’s why we are still in this cage together. That’s why…

Choking back the tears, I try to have some courage in my last moments, instead of cowardice, or feeling sorry for myself. This is all my own fault anyway; I could’ve left a long time ago; I could’ve chosen a different path, a different life, but I didn’t, despite all of the things that I saw and knew—I chose this.

I have no one to blame but myself.

I sigh, looking at my feet perched in the nice black shoes, and say, “Then why did you bring me here, Victor?” I raise my head and look at him. “If you were trying to push Niklas and me together, why whisk me away on a vacation, pamper me, and make love to me—why tell me how much you love me—if you didn’t want me anymore?”

He stands and moves toward me, holding out his hands, and he cups my cheeks within them. “That is what I have not told you yet,” he says, desperation evident in his voice. He pauses, softens his gaze. “I wanted—”

The door opens on the far side of the vast room. We turn swiftly to see Artemis and Apollo moving through the path of light borrowed from the hallway. They appear eager, worried even, not methodical and patient as they did when they left. It’s obvious something changed in the few minutes they were gone.

“Let’s get on with this, Victor,” Artemis calls out as she approaches; the sound of her boots moving over the stones echoes throughout the vast space. “You know why you’re here. You know why she’s here”—she stops at the bars, her twin standing behind her—“I want to hear you say it. Tell us all why you’re here, Victor…love.”

Victor steps away from me.

My heart picks up its pace, thrashing violently against my ribs; my throat is dry; I feel my palms sweating, my ears pounding, the vein in my throat hammering against my esophagus. My eyes dart between Artemis and Victor. This is it and I know it. I feel it. Then I see it…I see that flickering moment in which Victor reveals for the first time his intentions, the struggle within him that he knows won’t go his way, the downward shift of his gaze, the swallowing of his guilt—his eyes skirt the knife lying on the floor next to his feet.

Suddenly I can no longer hear their voices, or see their faces; my mind is cruelly carried off to a time that seems so long ago, a time when I barely knew Victor, but loved him enough already in my heart that I was willing to die at his hands:

He pulls my head back even farther. The gun is pressing into my stomach now.

“I’ve never been with a man that I wanted to be with,” I say. “I want to be with you. Just once. I want to know what it feels like to be the one in control.”

He’s conflicted, I feel it in the heat emitting from his skin, in his tense, uncertain movements. In one instance the gun digs deeper into my gut and I feel like my hair is about to come out within his hand. But then he relents, loosening his grip just a little, allowing my neck some reprieve. I can see his eyes now, peering up at me so deadly and yet so seductively even though I know he’s not doing it on purpose.

“You can’t be in here,” he says, also in a whisper.