Threads That Bind (Threads That Bind, #1)

by Kika Hatzopoulou

There is violence in kindness, and kindness in violence.”

Lies curdled love into something sour and noxious.

Her heart just craved. The softness, the calm, the intimacy. To know what it’s like to be loved.

“Over here,” Nico called. “I know the girl working the coatroom.” They followed him into a side door and down a heavy-carpeted corridor to the main foyer, where they waited in the shadows while Nico spoke with the coat-check girl. She patted his cheek fondly and slipped him a small object. Nico returned, his face as red as his hair, with a key to one of the vacant boxes. “See?” he said, eyeing Chimdi, a thumb pointed at his own chest. “A delight.”

Rosa’s face scrunched up, like she was about to say something horrible. “You know, one day you’ll need to grow the hell up and let other people decide for themselves if they like you or not.” There it was. The horrible thing.

Io dreaded that her love was doomed to be rejected, or tricked, or manipulated. And at the same time, she wanted desperately to be loved.

But Ava’s chin rose defiantly. “I’ve told you this before, Bianca. You’ve got your rules, and I’ve got mine. Three sisters, but one soul. When my sisters need me, I go.”

Are these women so important to you that you would risk us all for them?”

“Is our comfort so important that you’ll let people keep dying for it?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Ava replied quickly. “I’m not letting anyone die.” “By asking me to step away, you are.”

How irrational it was that Thais was both the instigator and resolution to the mess in Io’s head.

“Am I supposed to be ‘them’ in this scenario?” Io snapped. Adrenaline pumped through her chest; in a burst of courage, Io lifted her eyes to his. “I am a cutter. I’m paying an extra danger fee to live in my building. My private investigator license was rejected, twice, on the basis of threatening abilities. You have a job other-born can only dream of, you’re drinking coffee with the future Mayor, and you’re dressed in a suit the price of my rent. It’s bad for all of us but this”—Io gestured at the porcelain cups, the well-dressed guests, the sweet-smelling patio—“is a layer of protection few other-born can claim. Take that into consideration the next time you demand the instant forgiveness of someone you assaulted in a dark alley.”

Like they had taken her very justified anger and twisted it to their advantage, to something they could use in their campaign.

“Someone wise told me once that tolerating wickedness is just a slow kind of death.”

“I think the people we love can be cruel. Our love doesn’t absolve them. Nor should it.” “What kind of person are you,” Edei whispered, “if you love someone who is cruel?” It was a question Io had often asked herself. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “You’re someone who loves. That’s it. That’s the only part that’s yours to give and yours to take.”

But if Io had one, it was lost in the chaos of their admissions: he felt something for her. She had made her confession, that she didn’t tell him about the fate-thread, that she didn’t cut it. And he didn’t blame her. He questioned all the things she did: about fate and choice, love and uncertainty, but he didn’t blame her.