Leara's words hang like incense.
Cossa tilts his jaw away from her—refusing eye contact like it's a concession. "I won't join your war, Leara," he says, voice sanded flat. "I'll carve out a third option."
It's too late for that. The third option is identical to the second. He's ours. Whether he works in our circle or out of it, the end result will be the same.
"Too little, too late," Leara sighs, echoing my thoughts. "Give up the act, Sebastian. It's childish."
"Cossa."
"Mental illness…" I mummur.
His gaze flicks to me. Controlled anger. "I'll remember you, Auren of Ovine." Such an empty threat. I'm so sick of posturing. You can't do anything to me, fucking mongoloid.
"Don't get mad at me. You chose shock therapy on your own. But I wonder, was that stoic endurance of pain, or just debauched masochism?"
Cossa wisely chooses not to entertain my toying, returning his attention to Leara. "I refuse."
