She couldn't have wounded him more thoroughly if she'd gone and stabbed him through the heart with one of his own toxin-laced feathers.

"I've been waiting a year to hear you say those words," he managed, speaking low and deep, eyes turned away. If he kept his voice low, she wouldn't hear the way he choked on it. If he looked away, perhaps she'd miss the tears that were burning at eyes that, mercifully, were already red. "To say anything beyond what sort of traitor I am. A year. And then suddenly you've seen the light, suddenly you're on my side and you want to pick up where we left off? Forgive me for remaining unconvinced, Karla. This is too much of a face-heel-turn for me to believe it could possibly be real. Either I'm dreaming, or this is a lie. But whatever this is, it isn't you."

He felt sick. So, so sick.