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My grandfather—yours too, I suppose—he used to say, revenge will make you whole. The way Grey’s been behaving… I’m afraid it will break him.”
“This is your past, the good and the ill of it, and that which is neither.”
But he knew her through the makeup, and she knew him through the scars.
Would he ever get used to it—feeling like he was being gutted from the inside? Would it ever go away?
“I have my compass, my edge, my chalk, myself. I need nothing more to know the cosmos.”
Men had often looked at her the way Vargo was looking at her now, but always for her beauty—never her ingenuity.
She could easily have pulled away, but there was warmth in his touch, in his eyes, and she was tired of being cold.
Vargo didn’t often live in his body. He’d grown up thinking bodies were for pain—inflicting, receiving—a belief that lingered even though pain was rarely a concern for him anymore.
Labyrinth’s Heart was the stillness of the eye of the storm.
“We don’t kill,” the Rook whispered to the oblivious city. “But we can destroy.”
“Trust is the thread that binds us… and the rope that hangs us.”
