He shakes his head. Pulling back, out of my touch, he says, “I’m a coward. I had to reveal my secrets, but I couldn’t face your reaction. Or Grace’s.”

That’s the heart of it. He was afraid we would reject him. He was afraid to see anything other than attraction in my eyes or admiration in Grace’s. He should have trusted us more.

Gretchen has learned to trust, and, I am confident, so will Thane. And I’m just the girl to start his training.

I shrug. “We all have secrets.” I cross my arms. “I, for example, once bought a knock-off Dooney from a shop down by the wharf, because every department store in the city was out of stock.”

“Not really the same,” he argues with a disbelieving huff. “Not a betrayal.”

I lift my brows. “You don’t know my friends.”

Hanging his head low, he rubs his hands over his short hair.

“I am pissed at you, though,” I say. When he looks up, I explain, “If you don’t ask me to sit down, I might never speak to you again.”

He half rolls his eyes.

I drum my fingers against my arm.

“What about me makes you think I’m not serious?”

He shakes his head but scoots over to one side of the bench, making room for me. When I don’t immediately sit, he looks up. I just stare at him.

“Great gods,” he says, exasperated. “Greer, would you like to sit?”

Good. That nudged him a little further out of his funk.

I give him a sunny smile. “I’d love to.”

Settling in next to him on the bench, I give him a moment before I start in. He stares out at the water, at the pond and the ripples caused by wind or fish or paddling ducklings. He’s scared. He thinks he’s committed an unforgivable betrayal against the people he cares about most—his sister and his parents.

From one perspective, he’s right. He lied to them, or at least withheld the truth.

But, like I said, haven’t we all.

From another perspective, he’s a hero. He chose family over duty and training. He put himself at great risk by refusing to harm me and my sisters.

It’s time for him to stop acting like a traitor, but I know that coming right out and saying that will be absolutely the wrong approach. I have to come at this sideways.

“My parents have never loved me,” I say.

He looks up, startled. Clearly that was not what he expected me to say. To be honest, it’s not quite what I expected to say, either. It just spilled out of me when I opened my mouth.

“I mean, not the way some parents love their children,” I explain. “Not the way your parents love you and Grace.”

“I’m sorry.”

“If they found out about my lies,” I continue, “if they learned the truth about my heritage, they would view that as a betrayal. They would never forgive me.”

“Thanks,” he half groans. “That makes me feel better.”

“Did you think I came here to make you feel better?” I shake my head. “I’m here to tell you to pull your head out of your backside.”

He jerks back, shocked by my directness.

“Your parents love you,” I say, “unequivocally. So does Grace.”

“Which makes this so much worse.”

“No,” I insist. “That makes it so much easier.”

“How?” he asks, like he really wants to know, needs to know. “The stronger the love, the worse the betrayal, Greer. It’s not like I betrayed an acquaintance or even someone I hate. They love me, and I . . .”

“You love them,” I finish. I twist around to face him, tucking my ankle behind my knee, and place my palms on his cheeks. “Listen to me very closely, because I am only going to say this one time.” I wait for him to nod before continuing. “You have betrayed no one. If anything, you proved your love by getting these scars.”

I hold my breath as I lift the hem of his tee to reveal the three scratches—only half healed and still an angry red—inscribed across his torso. It is only a partial relief to know the painful part of my vision is already behind him.

It also means he is still in pain.

He grabs my hand and yanks his shirt back down. “How did you know about that?”

I purse my lips and tap my temple. “Second sight, remember?”

He studies me. “You saw it?”

I nod. “Have you taken the antidote?”

“No,” he says. “There isn’t any.”

“The woman with the flaming hair,” I argue. “She said she would give it to you if you succeeded.”

He looks up at me, his dark eyes shuttered. “She lied.”

I scowl. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Shaking his head, he says, “It’s— Only the juice of a golden apple can counter her poison. The apples are fiercely guarded, their juice more valuable than ambrosia.”

“We’ll find some,” I say with as much certainty as I can muster. “Whatever it takes.”

“It’s fine,” he says, taking my hand in his. “It’s not fatal. Just painful.”

I squeeze his hand. He is so strong, but he believes himself to be so inadequate. Even if I can’t heal his pain, maybe I can make his emotional hurt better.

“You have not betrayed your family. The only thing that could betray their love,” I say, “is abandoning them in their time of need. And right now, until this thing is finished, Grace needs you.”