Rosamund
"Yes, there is!" I shouted. "There is another way, and you would know it if you ever, for one single moment in your life, stopped hiding from the people who love you!"
I reached up and grabbed the mask.
He caught my wrist. His fingers closed around it, firm, the same way they had the first time I'd tried, in his bed, in the dark, with his body still inside mine.
"Don't," he said.
"Take it off."
"Rosamund, don't—"
"Take it off, Nevan. Take it off right now, or I swear to God I will rip it off your face myself."
His grip on my wrist tightened. His breathing was ragged. His eyes behind the mask were wild, wide, filled with a terror that made my chest ache.
Then he released my wrist.
He reached up with both hands, pressed his fingers against the edges of the mask, and pulled it from his face.
The mask clattered to the stone floor.
I looked at him.
