Venators: Promises Forged. Devri Walls

      He considered denying the obvious, but Tashara had already seen more than he wanted to acknowledge. “Both. My entire life, I’ve pretended to be someone I’m not. I’ve always been too scared to let anyone in.”

      “Why?”

      Part of him wanted to stop talking. His traitorous side wanted anything but. He sighed, and his head drooped.

      “I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror without seeing the demons. How could I possibly hide them from a friend?”

      Grey’s past lurked in the back of his eyes with desperate hollowness. Some days, he didn’t look, pretended it wasn’t there. Other days, he did, and it made him nauseous.

      He continued. “And it seems I was right. I couldn’t hide what was inside from you for more than two minutes.” Grey glanced over his shoulder, bitterness leaking out.

      Tashara’s brow furrowed. “Grey, I’m a bit of an exception.”

      “I couldn’t take the chance.”

      It was the first time he’d really admitted why he’d shied away from friends, and the silence that stretched out between them was more uncomfortable because of it.

      “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You must’ve been a very lonely child.”

      Grey snorted at the understatement. “Not only did I have to hide what he did . . .” No. Grey bit his lip hard enough that he tasted blood. He wasn’t ready to talk about that.

      “He,” Tashara repeated. She wasn’t asking for clarification, simply putting another piece into the puzzle. “But being on this side of the gate means you’re away from him. You’re free now. Why aren’t you happy?”

      “Free?” That word, thrown out so cavalierly, broke something inside him. Grey spun to face Tashara. “I’ll never be free! I harbored a childish hope my whole life that Tate would come back for me,” he yelled, “because I thought if he did, my life would get better. Then I could be who I truly was. I could be free. Tate came, all right, and he brought me here, where the last thing anybody wants is the real me.”

      Grey pointed at Tashara as if she’d been the one who yanked him through the gate. “You want to use my abilities. Use me. I can’t show emotions of any kind or speak a word as to how wrong this world is. The only way to stay alive is to let go of everything that makes me who I am.” He pounded his chest. “To stay alive, you want me to stop caring. But that’s who I am. That’s what I do—I care!”

      Wanting to run but unable to, Grey paced around the room, years of pain flowing out. If his agony had been tangible, it would surely have drowned them both in its waves.

      “Grey—”

      “Stop! The council wants me to destroy for them. What kind of man would I be if . . . I can’t . . . Tashara, I can’t . . .” He let loose a guttural yell and kicked a chair across the room. It slid until the legs caught on the rug, tipped over, and smashed to the floor.

      Tashara looked indifferent to the verbal assault. She lowered herself to the edge of the bed and crossed her hands in her lap. “Are you ready to talk about the one who hurt you so badly? Because I think—”

      “No!” he shouted.

      “Very well. What else?”

      He spun, incredulous. “You’re enjoying this.”

      “I’m not. But Grey, you’re going to have to get this out before we can work.”

      “No.” He gripped his head. “No. I never should’ve come to you for help.”

      “Yes, you should—”

      “You want me to be someone I’m not! What’s the point of any of this if I become someone I detest?”

      A flash of pain crossed her face, and she stood, moving toward him, one hand outstretched.

      Grey inhaled sharply and took three quick steps back.

      Tashara stopped. “Very well.” Hurt edged her acknowledgement, and she dropped her gaze. “At a distance, then.”

      None of the versions of Tashara Grey had previously met were in the room at the moment—and he’d met several. Seductress, benefactor, teacher. This woman, the predator, now held herself in a way he recognized intimately: as a victim.

      Despite the immediate recognition, Grey couldn’t reconcile the truth of it, and he brushed it away.

      “I don’t want you to become someone else,” Tashara said. “I need you to pretend to be something else. In order to survive. That’s all.”

      “What’s the bloody difference? Turning into someone else and acting like someone else is the same damn thing!”

      “No,” she said fiercely. “It’s not. You pull on a persona like you would a pair of pants. As it can be pulled on, so it can be discarded. You choose when and where to disrobe, and you do so only in safe spaces.”

      “Disrobe? Safe spaces?” Grey barked a laugh. “Is this an innuendo I’m not catching, because I’m really not in the mood for—”

      “It means that in the castle, you are Grey Malteer—the Venator.” A soft smile tented the corner of her mouth. “And when you’re out with Rune or Tate, you are Grey Malteer—rescuer of the weak.” She lowered her eyes and looked up through thick lashes. “That is who you want to be, isn’t it?”

      A portion of Grey’s anger melted against his will. “And what . . .” He swallowed. “What am I supposed to be around you?”

      Tashara took a cautious step, watching his reaction. When he didn’t flinch away, she took another, then another. As they stood there, toe to toe, her voice poured out like honey. “That’s up to you. I won’t force you to open up or be anything other than the persona I will teach you to be. All I ask is that you be honest with me.”

      He started to object, but she shook her head. “It’s imperative. Otherwise, your anger and frustration will build up behind whatever persona you choose, and those emotions will reveal cracks and holes in the façade that we will build. Those well attuned to the nature of others will be able to see exactly what you’re playing at.

      “If you can convincingly pretend to be the ruthless Venator Dimitri is seeking, he’ll grant you more freedom, giving you opportunities to be yourself away from prying eyes and ears. But if you fail—if he realizes that it’s simply an act . . .” She trailed off, her silence implying the consequences would certainly involve death. “Do you understand?”

      As much as he didn’t want to, Grey could see the wisdom. He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Yes.”

      “Good.” She clasped her hands together, like the matter was settled, and smiled. “We work together, then?”

      Together.

      “Tashara, why are you helping me?”

      “You asked.”

      Suspicion rose, and he shook his head. “That’s not why.”

      Annoyed at being pushed in the same manner she’d pushed him, Tashara scowled. “Perhaps someday you and I can both be ourselves . . . and I’ll tell you more. But not today.”

      “You don’t trust me.”

      “No. I don’t.” She stepped neatly around him and stretched out languidly on the chaise, her left arm resting on the rolled end. “Sit.”

      She waited patiently until he righted the chair he’d kicked across the room and sat. “I didn’t come here to chide you. Those blushing cheeks of yours distracted me. There’s been an interesting development.”

      “Interesting sounds like a code word for bad.”

      She