The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“Was this it?” he asked, gesturing to the crimson. “I’m not quite sure I have the precise hue.”

“For what?”

But he could feel her stiffen in his arms.

“Your wedding dress,” he replied, smiling politely, and for a moment, she froze. “How is your husband, by the way? Alive, I assume. I imagine that’s why you changed your name, went to school in Paris? You don’t strike me as the career-oriented type, so I assume you were fleeing something. And what better place to hide than within the walls of a magically warded university?”

He felt the low undercurrent of her rage and felt keenly, acutely blissful.

“Oh, it’s not the worst thing,” he told her. “Plenty of teenagers have run from their tyrannical husbands before. Did your brother try to stop it? No, of course not,” he sighed to himself, “he never forgave you for turning from him, and this was your punishment.”

Parisa stepped back, dazed, and Callum held out a hand to her.

“You’ve been running a long time,” he murmured to her, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “Poor thing.” He pulled her into an embrace, feeling the low swell of her misery greet him like a wave inside his chest. “You’ve been running for your life since the moment you were born.”

He felt her sag against him, drained slightly, and he angled her shoulders beneath his arms, guiding her out of the ballroom.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” he told her, adjusting his arm to fit her waist as he led her up the stairs, up past the bedrooms and to the terrace on the top floor. She was gradually deflating, sentiment beginning to bleed out of her as if he’d sliced a vein. “People think beauty is such a prized thing, but not you. Not yours. Your beauty is a curse.”

“Callum.” Her lips were numb, his name slurred. He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip, half-smiling.

“Do you hate them?” he whispered to her, lightly kissing her cheek. “No, I don’t think you do. I think, quietly, you suspect you deserve this, don’t you? You drive people to madness; you’ve watched it happen. You see them set eyes on you and you know it, don’t you? The way it looks, the way it feels. Perhaps you consider yourself a monster for it. It would explain your fear of me,” he told her softly, taking her face in his hands. “Secretly, you believe yourself to be far worse than I have ever been, because your hunger is incurable. Your wants are insatiable. You never tire of making people weak for you, do you? The perversity of your desire scares you, but it’s easier to think I might be worse.”

They reached the terrace, Callum nudging the doors open for their entry. Parisa’s feet met the wet marble, nearly slipping as the London rain fell. It splashed over the Greco-Roman farce that was the Society’s decor, droplets sliding like tears from the marble cupids, the white-washed nymphs.

Callum tucked one of her hands in the crook of his arm, leading her around the rooftop’s perimeter.

“You must wonder sometimes if it would be easier not to exist,” he commented.

Parisa didn’t answer, staring instead at her feet. Her shoes, fashionable as always, were suede and ruined, soaked through from the rain within minutes. Her hair fell lank over her shoulders in the wet, though of course her beauty was undiminished. He had never seen a woman’s eyes shine so dully and still remain so bright. The haunted look in them heightened her beauty, in his mind. She had never been so lovely, so broken. She made devastation look like riches, like jewels.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked.

She dragged her gaze up, sickened. “Who?”

“Everyone.”

Her eyes shut briefly, and she swayed. Her lips parted to mumble one word.

“Yes.”

Callum stroked the drops from her cheeks, her lips. He pressed a kiss to the furrow between her brows; comforting, tender. Sweet.

“They don’t have to hurt you anymore,” he said, and stepped away, leaving her to stand alone.

She was burning on low now; a simmer that threatened to flicker, a glimmer poised to go out. Funny thing about rain, really, how it always made things seem so dismal. London did that naturally, of its own accord. The foggy grey was so spectacularly akin to loneliness, which Parisa was inescapably awash in. She was so saturated in it that she was the only thing that shone.

Callum watched Parisa turn her head, gazing out over the gardens, taking in the view of the city from where they stood. She was still staring, half-unblinking, when she reached out for the railing, closing her hand around it and settling into the breeze with a shiver. She was so empty now he doubted much would ignite her. Perhaps a spark, but then nothing.

Isolation was a powerful weapon. Forced isolation more so.

He did her the honor of watching, at least, as she climbed onto the railing. To her credit, she took little time to decide; she wasn’t one for second-guessing. He was proud of her, nearly, for being so strong that way, for taking things into her own hands. He kept his gaze on hers, reassuring. He would not be revulsed by her choice.

When she fell, Libby gasped.

Unfortunate, Callum thought internally. He’d forgotten the others were there, being focused instead on Parisa’s emotions, which were engulfing. She was so lovely, her sadness so pure. Her anguish was the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted.

“No,” sputtered Libby, half-hysterical. “No, you can’t—what—”