Zielle
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Reis stands behind the bars, still as stone. Only his fingers twitch around the iron, a silent pulse of anger. Or maybe restraint. The faint moonlight slants across his face, catching on the curve of his jaw, on the scar above his cheekbone. He looks carved from shadow and fury both.
I take a step forward. My voice doesn't come right away. "Reis…"
He lifts his head, and when his eyes find mine, I forget how to breathe. They're not like before. The storm that used to rage in them is quieter now, but a lot colder. I don't know which version of him is worse.
"Don't," he says. Low, rough, and almost a growl.
The word freezes me mid-step.
"Don't say it." His voice sounds tired, not angry, but like someone who's run out of ways to fight. "Whatever you're about to say, save it."
"What?—I had to do it, we've planned this…" I whisper. "You don't understand what would've happened if—"
