The realization was a cold, jagged blade in her chest.
He didn't know that she hated the smell of lavender because it reminded her of the funeral pyres in the slums. He didn't know that she loved the taste of stolen, sour apples more than the finest palace delicacies. He didn't know that her favorite color wasn't the Imperial gold or the Catalyst silver, but the muddy, brownish-green of the river at twilight.
To him, she was the Anchor. She was the Catalyst. She was the woman who kept the "Red Tyrant" from burning into nothingness. She was a biological necessity—a beautiful, glowing battery that he could wrap in silk and claim in the dark.
I am a tool he has grown fond of, Vera thought, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. I am the only woman who can survive him, so he decided I am the only woman he wants. If I lost the ice tomorrow... if I became just Vera the thief again... would he even remember my name?
