The bathroom door opened again after only a few moments, and she brushed past me without so much as a glance as she left the room. She was going for my breakfast. My knees felt weak, my mind reeling. What was going on? What could possibly be keeping her here?

I got dressed and went to the window, tying the drapes back, and saw a pool of blood covering a large section of the pathway down below in the gardens. That should have been cleaned up yesterday when the body was removed. The sight reminded me why I had done that, why she had to leave. I still stood there, staring out the window, when the door opened again. Dishes clinked as she set my desk with breakfast. Sheets rustled as she began to make the bed. Finally, I spoke.

"You are a fool to return," I said coldly, turning to face her.

"You're making assumptions without all the information, Prince Chevalier," she replied, matching my icy tone. "I have weighed my options, and unfortunately, this is the best one for me at the moment."

"Come here."

She froze at my sharp command, bent over the bed, but she lifted her head and met my eyes defiantly. "You'd better not touch me," she warned.

"I won't."

She approached cautiously, and I nodded toward the window. Her breath caught in her throat as soon as she spotted the blood.

"Do you understand now?" I asked quietly.

"You could have just told me," she said bitterly, turning from the window.

She'd figured it out. I hadn't anticipated that. She knew why I'd done it, and even though she was furious with me, even though she knew the danger, she came back.

"What were your other options?"

She was silent for a moment, but she finally said, "Option one: Stay here, risk death by proxy. Option two: Leave here, pick up multiple jobs to maintain Mother's care, not be able to spend any time with her. Option three: Leave here, find another brothel, earn potentially more money, but not be able to look Mother in the eye anymore. There is really only one choice."

"Even if I make you clean the blood up?" This was my very last attempt.

"I'll already be cleaning plenty of blood up," she reminded me flatly.

She was right. The laundry, the bathroom - there was no avoiding it. I couldn't even scare her away properly, and now I'd created a gruesome mess for her to clean up. If I opened my mouth again, I'd probably just make everything worse.

If that were possible.

But I needed to apologize, or make an attempt. Even though there weren't adequate words.

"I'm sorry."

She whirled to face me, her green eyes angrier than I'd ever seen them. "You should be," she said firmly. "You knew exactly how much that would scare me, and you did it anyway. That was cruel and malicious. Why couldn't you just tell me? You didn't have to do that. You have no idea what it's like to be so completely helpless and vulnerable, knowing that there's nothing you can do to stop somebody else from hurting you. And when it's someone you trusted - and I couldn't even fight you. Even while you were doing it, I couldn't believe it was happening. Do you know how much that hurts? That you would treat me like that - like a common whore - when I thought you cared about me? And I don't want to hear you throwing the Brutal Beast at me again. You're just using that to justify mistreating people. If people don't matter - if emotions don't matter - then why do you even bother with me at all?"

Every venomous word pierced my heart, each one justified. I reached out toward her automatically, but she slapped my hand away.

"I said, don't touch me!"

I pulled my hand back, silent in the face of her pain, so much greater than the sting of the wounds hidden by my gloves. Her green eyes were livid with anger. She was going to cry again.

"Don't you ever touch me again. You've lost that privilege. I don't care who you are, or who you think you are. I'm not a toy, or a tool, or your pet. I'm a person, and I have a name, and maybe you don't have to use it, but you will not treat me like that ever again. I don't want your charity, and I don't want your sympathy, but I demand your respect. If you can't give me that, then at least don't pretend. Tell me flat out, so I know exactly where I stand. Or, better yet, just cut me down right here. What's a little more blood, right? Since I don't matter, anyway. Because it was all lies, wasn't it? I'm nothing more than the dirt on your boot to you. Can I even believe a single word you said to me? Why did you have to make me think I had any value, just to tear it all away and laugh in my face? Don't lie to me anymore. Just say it to my face, so I can crawl back in the gutter where I belong."

"Stop," I said firmly, anger rising in me as she included herself in her verbal onslaught.

"No, I won't stop. Because maybe, if I keep going like this, you'll just put me out of my misery once and for all, and then you can go find yourself a new playmate. Maybe you can pick up one of Jack's girls. Just tell Prince Leon you're going to take care of her like you took care of me."

"Stop!" I shouted.

"What, does it bother you? Does it hurt to hear the truth? Or maybe you've been lying to yourself, not me. Maybe you do have a heart, and maybe you do have emotions, and maybe you do care about me. It doesn't make a difference to me, anyway. I'm only here until my mother dies. Once she's gone, I'll be out of your life, and you'll just be a horrible memory that I wish I could forget."

I stared at her in shock. She knew. She knew so much more than I thought, and she knew how to hurt me as much as I knew how to hurt her. I watched her, shaking all over, her cheeks wet with tears, and I realized that she didn't like doing it any more than I had.

"Are you finished?" I asked coolly, my eyes narrowing again.

She shook her head, breathing hard. "Not yet. Not by a long shot. But there aren't enough words to express how angry I am right now, how deeply you hurt me." She took a deep, shaky breath, hugging herself as she looked away from me. "And the worst part is, you don't know any better. Death and bloodshed are normal, everyday occurrences for you, and for once in your life, that bothers you. But you couldn't just tell me. This was your idea of a solution. I want to be mad at you, but even now, I can't help but feel sorry for you." Her voice was gradually becoming more steady, and she looked back up at me, anger fading and melding with sadness. "So I'm just going to say it. I'm sorry," she said, practically spitting the words like they burned in her mouth. "I said too much, and I went too far. And unlike you, I knew better."

She collapsed on the edge of the bed, closing her eyes and massaging her temples. "And I am sorry for you, Prince Chevalier. You have everything, and you have nothing, all at the same time. And I know you don't want my sympathy, but you still have it." Another deep breath, and she nodded, opening her eyes again to look up at me. "Now I'm finished."

I regarded her in silence for a moment. Even now, even after what I'd done, she couldn't hold her anger for long. She was already concerned about me again. And I thought I knew how clever she was, but I didn't know half of it. All along, she'd been reading me better than I'd been reading her. She knew me, inside and out. And she was staying. There was nothing childish or innocent about her. That was only an illusion to hide the complex woman who, once again, had nobody to trust. Thanks to me.

"Say what you like to me, but don't ever talk about yourself like that again."

She swallowed hard, dropping her hands to her sides and digging them into the sheets. "I won't."

I sighed. "You realize you're the only one who can speak to me this way."

"Well, that's your own fault," she said dryly. "Sit down."

My eyes widened, startled by her command, and she glared up at me.

"I said, sit down," she repeated sharply. She patted the bed next to her. "I need to look at your hand."

I shook my head, but she grabbed my left wrist and yanked me down beside her.

"You're not-"

"Shut up," she snapped, releasing my left wrist and reaching across me to grab my right wrist, holding it firmly with a small but surprisingly strong hand while she pulled the glove off with her other hand. "You're not doing either of us any good by hurting yourself."

I stared at her in disbelief as she examined the bloody cuts.

"At least you had the sense to clean the glass out. You're lucky you didn't break a finger," she continued scolding me. "But you won't need any stitches." She sighed and looked back up at me, a tired resignation in her eyes. "What about your feet? Did you step on any glass?"

I shook my head, speechless.

She frowned. "You'd better not be lying to me."

"I'm not," I managed to say.

"No, I guess you're not, or I'd have bloody footprints to clean up, too," she said coolly. "I could get ointment and bandages and tend to this myself, but you've given me plenty of extra work to do already, so you'll have to go to a doctor about this." She released my hand, but she took my glove and put it in an apron pocket. "And you can have this back after you see the doctor." She stood up and straightened the drapes. "If you'll excuse me - your highness," she added bitingly, and then she left.

I stared at my hand for a moment longer, my mind reeling. The sound of glass scraping across the marble tiles of the bathroom floor brought me back to reality. I stood up and left. This had backfired badly. She wasn't going anywhere, and I was in love with her.