Evangeline
My hands won’t stop trembling; they haven’t for years. I’ve rehearsed this confession a thousand times in the dark—phrases, half-truths, the cold logic I used to justify every cruelty—but rehearsals are no substitute for the real thing.
Christian sits across from me, and the light on his face makes my chest ache. He looks like someone carved out of winter and kept warm by a single stubborn ember.
“You asked for the whole truth,” I say. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “You said leave nothing out.”
He doesn’t move. His hands are folded, but his fingers aren’t still. I can see the tremor in them, the bond thrumming under his skin like a second heartbeat. He watched the videos; I know that now. I saw his jaw clench when Athan accused him, saw his eyes go distant wh
