The conviction in her voice hit me like a physical blow. She wasn't bluffing. She was a woman standing on the edge of a cliff, daring me to push her because she knew she'd take me down with her.
I pulled away, the disgust rising in my throat like bile. I turned my back on her, unable to stand the sight of her face a moment longer.
"She is desperate," Vane whimpered, his ears tucked back in shame. "She is backed into a corner, and you are the one who pushed her there."
No, I snarled internally. I was right. I was right from the very beginning.
Every ounce of guilt I had felt for calling her what she was, every ache that had spiked in my chest when I saw her pained expression—withered and died. I felt a profound, burning hatred for myself for ever thinking she was different.
I had actually wondered if there was a soul beneath that silk, something worth protecting, something that wasn't tainted by the mud of the Outer District.
