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I was angry with you for picking Sam.”
    Was it the King of the Assassins who spoke, or the father, or the lover who had never manifested himself?
    Arobynn’s carefully cultivated mask fell, and the wound she’d given him flickered in those magnificent eyes. “Stay with me,” he whispered. “Stay in Rifthold.”
    She swallowed, and found it particularly hard to do so. “I’m going.”
    “No,” he said softly. “Don’t go.”
    No.
    That was what she’d said to him that night he’d beaten her, in the moment before he’d struck her, when she thought he was going to hurt Sam instead. And then he’d beaten her so badly she’d been knocked unconscious. Then he’d beaten Sam, too.
    Don’t.
    That was what Ansel had said to her in the desert, when Celaena had pressed the sword into the back of her neck, when the agony of Ansel’s betrayal had been almost enough to make Celaena kill the girl she’d called a friend. But that betrayal still paled in comparison to what Arobynn had done to her when he’d tricked her into killing Doneval, a man who could have freed countless slaves.
    He was using words as chains to bind her again. He’d had so many chances over the years to tell her that he loved her—he’d
known
how much she’d craved those words. But he hadn’t spoken them until he needed to use them as weapons. And now that she had Sam, Sam who said those words without expecting anything in return, Sam who loved her for reasons she still didn’t understand …
    Celaena tilted her head to the side, the only warning she gave that she was still ready to attack him. “Get out of my house.”
    Arobynn just looked at her one final time, nodded slowly, and left.
    The Black Cygnet tavern was packed wall-to-wall, as it was most nights. Seated with Sam at a table in the middle of the busy room, Celaena didn’t particularly feel like eating the beef stew in front of her. Or like talking, even though Sam had told her all about the information he’d gathered on Farran and Jayne. She hadn’t mentioned Arobynn’s surprise visit.
    A cluster of giggling young women sat nearby, tittering about how the Crown Prince was gone on a holiday to the Sorian coast, and how
they
wished they could join the prince and his dashing friends, and on and on until Celaena contemplated chucking her spoon at them.
    But the Black Cygnet wasn’t a violent tavern. It catered to a crowd who came to enjoy good food, good music, and good company. There were no brawls, no dark dealings, and certainly no prostitutes milling about. Perhaps that was what brought her and Sam back here for dinner most nights—it felt so
normal
.
    It was another place she’d miss.
    When they arrived home after dinner, the apartment feeling strangely not hers now that Arobynn had broken in, Celaena went straight to the bedroom and lit a few candles. She was ready for this day to be over. Ready to dispatch Jayne and Farran, and then leave.
    Sam appeared in the doorway. “I’ve never seen you so quiet,” he said.
    She looked at herself in the mirror above the dresser. The scar from her fight with Ansel had faded from her cheek, and the one on her neck was well on its way to disappearing, too.
    “I’m tired,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. She began unbuttoning her tunic, her hands feeling strangely clumsy. Was this why Arobynn had visited? Because he’d known he’d impact her like this? She straightened, hating the thought so much that she wanted to shatter the mirror in front of her.
    “Did something happen?”
    She reached the final button of her tunic, but didn’t take it off. She turned to face him, looking him up and down.
Could
she ever tell him everything?
    “Talk to me,” he said, his brown eyes holding only concern. No twisted agendas, no mind games …
    “Tell me your deepest secret,” she said softly.
    Sam’s eyes narrowed, but he pushed off the threshold and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, setting the ends