“Didn’t you work for him?”
“It was expected of me.”
“So you did what he said? Without question?”
“Nothing,” he mumbles quickly, picking at his cuticles. That’s when I realize how bloody they are. Torn stumps of nails, barelyclinging on. Apparently, these past two weeks haven’t been easy on him, either.
“Why am I here, Cian?” I ask bluntly. “It’s obvious that you don’t know what the hell to do with me. So why keep me?”
He drags his face up from his hands to look at me again. At this angle, the moonlight slotting through the window fills thehollow of one cheek, leaving the other one shrouded dark. His nose looks brutally sharp, his eyes like the faintest pinpricks oflight at the far end of tunnels that keep going and going and going.
“Because the powers that be w
