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" BEXLEY BRIAR "
Even as the words leave her mouth, Bexley regrets them, knowing that whatever Florentine says in answer will only make her feel worse. Yet here she is, sabotaging herself again, making mistakes, wanting the wrong people, always wanting and wanting more than she deserves, wanting whatever’s bad for her, like an idiot: her head goes black with the impact of the thought, but she forces herself to stay upright, to stay calm, to meet Florentine’s eyes with some semblance of goodness, of understanding.
But that moment of control passes within an instant when Florentine says there is a boy, and Bexley’s brain repeats boy, so insistently that she would have stumbled if she were standing up, but from her spot on the ground all she can do is blink hard, attempting to move the stars from her eyes. Instead of something hot or bright, there is just an empty wind that appears in the girl’s chest suddenly, sends a gauzy darkness through every nerve. Her limbs start to go numb, fuzzy. Underneath those fluttering lashes the blue of her eyes turns to something caustic and uncontrollable, a tempest and a fire, though the violent upset there does not completely cover a sadness underneath.
Before Florentine can continue, Bexley strikes out against the sand and, with a sudden burst of power in her muscles, hauls herself back to standing. Water sloughs off her skin to rejoin the oasis, spreads tiny shreds of diamond into the air around them. If she were not so confused, so angry, she would have appreciated the scene: all sunlight and hot air, the cool press of the lake at her feet, the beautiful shape that Flora makes against the bright-blue sky, though now Bexley looks upon that shape with a kind of disgust, disgust for herself for getting involved in the first place, for not asking the right questions.
Her glance is cool and hard as it meets the emissary’s, and when she speaks it is rough only at the edges, flat with contained animosity - A boy. On anyone else it would sound harsh; from Bexley’s mouth the words are still warm and disaffected, as though this information has brought her no strife at all, has not turned her blood to boiling, her head to blackness. Those blue eyes glitter wolfishly. Her head tilts to one side in what might be interest, or a mocking of it. Despite everything, Bexley feels more like herself than she has in weeks, for what is she if not in the control, if not holding the power close to her chest, if not strong enough to say no and not him and I’ll make you love me?
Next to the bitterness in her heart is satisfaction, and that troubles her more than anything.
What boy? she finally continues. Different how? There are so many questions she wants to be answered, so many whys, and most frustrating is that she knows the most pressing ones won’t be answered, simply because they can’t be. With an icy gaze unfit for a Solterran she glances at Florentine and says with perfect evenness, You can’t love both of us and also say it’s not the same. On the last word her voice finally goes violent, with a bitterness so intense it almost hurts to grind it out through her teeth. Maybe it’s a low blow - Bexley isn’t exactly a love expert, either - but she’s gone far enough that morality and ethics don’t seem appealing anymore, and anyway, she believes it - they can’t be the same and different. An explosion of heat starts to build in her chest, but she pushes it down with the steely resolve she’s carried since child hood and pays it no more mind, watching Florentine with vicious intensity.
