Tristan
The West Wing was supposed to be my fortress, a place of cold stone and Alpha-line discipline. Instead, it had become a hall of mirrors. Everywhere I turned, I saw the silver light of the trance; every shadow seemed to hold the silhouette of the girl I was trying so desperately to hate.
I stood in the corridor outside the West Wing pantry, my hand hovering over the iron latch. My father was in the council chamber, probably finalizing the details of a union that would cement my misery. Nora was in the solarium, weaving her webs. And Rena... Rena was inside this room, less than five feet away, because I had been a fool and commanded her to be there.
Why did we bring her here? Vane asked, his voice a low, rumbling vibration in my skull. To hurt her? Or to keep her where no one else
