Darlington's eyes flash, that wounded shock back in his expression before he can get his face under control. He almost corrects her, gives up another vital piece of his heart to a girl who'd never deserved any at all. It's a stupid, futile impulse, something that wouldn't do any good; wouldn't repair any of the rift that's formed between them--and maybe, just for a moment, he doesn't want to fix it anyway.

Let her believe Halloween had been the start, that it had been a manufactured revelation thrust upon him by the society he'd always loathed the most. What did it matter now?

"Guess not," he says flatly. "Should've remembered that I always make the worst choices when I'm not entirely sober."