Elara's grip was warm, tighter than it had any right to be. She wasn't usually like this. Normally she spoke sharp, precise, like every word had been sharpened before she let it out. But now her voice shook, her eyes searching his face as if she could pin him down there, stop him from slipping further away.
Merlin didn't move. Didn't trust himself to.
Her fingers pressed harder against his wrist, until the bone ached under the pressure.
"You don't get to think that way," she whispered this time, softer, but the words cut more than when she'd shouted.
Merlin's throat burned, but he forced the words out anyway. "Elara. You don't understand."
"Then make me."
He stared at her. The lanternlight caught the side of her face, threw the rest in shadow. She wasn't asking like someone curious. She was demanding, like her life depended on it.
'If I tell her, she'll look at me differently. She'll see me as broken, not strong. And I can't—'
