John gentles into the touch, eased with hope by the set of her eyes. He tips his head into the contact, his cheek set whole and warm against her palm. He touches his brow to hers, such that his breath moves the sticky lines of her hair. His palm spreads to feel her heartbeat, gone slow and steady under his hand. If she kills him now, like this, there isn't much he can do about it.

"Yes," he croaks, rough with numbing poison or with the weight of the word. "Yes. We can't do it over— it's not a clean slate— but it could be something. I want you there."

This is the trap he's been led into, the test he's been shown: this is the resignation they've wanted since the start. John shuts his eyes in ugly submission.

He can bear her hatred better than her distance. Annabel always hated him anyway, or would have, if she'd known how.