Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Disappointed?”
I huff out a bitter laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He takes a step closer, but I don’t move. I hold my ground. It feels like heat rolls off him. My skin pricks at his proximity.
“You look shaken.” His voice is low.
My chin lifts. “You wish.”
His gaze flickers with amusement. “I don’t need to wish. If I want something, I can just take it.”
My breath hitches, and I swear the room feels smaller. Warmer.
“This is . . . ridiculous,” I whisper, backing up half a step.
Lorenzo follows that movement like a predator following his prey. “What is?”
“This.” I gesture vaguely between us, my hand trembling. “Me . . . standing here. Caring. Wondering if you’re hurt. Wondering if this means something.”
His eyes soften, and it scares me more than his wound did.
“It does mean something.”
My throat tightens. “It shouldn’t.”
His hand lifts slowly, like he’s going to touch my cheek.
I freeze.
The distance between his fingertips and my skin feels too close. Is he going to touch me? Do I want him to?
“You still remember?” His voice is low and hoarse.
“Remember what?” My voice cracks. I hate that it does.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “How it feels when we were together.”
I do remember.
I remember everything . . . The boathouse. The summer air. The way his hands used to hold me like he was afraid I’d vanish.
I should be disgusted by him now. But for some reason, I’m not.
I swallow hard. “Of course, I do,” I whisper, forcing the words out. “But that means nothing now.”
He leans closer, head tilting, as he watches me with those eyes . . . those relentless, knowing eyes.
“I was seventeen. I’m not the same girl.”
“Yeah, you are.” Lorenzo’s gaze sharpens. “You’re still you.”
My chest tightens so hard it hurts. “I’m not.”
He steps closer again, leaving no space. His hand finally cups my jaw. His fingers are warm, firm, and not at all gentle.
I go still.
My entire body vibrates with a yes that I don’t want to feel.
His thumb drags lightly along my cheekbone, slow and possessive.
“You pull away like you’re scared of me.”
“I am scared,” I admit, hating myself for it. “Because you’re the boy I once loved and now . . .”
His jaw flexes. “And now that boy is dead.” The words are blunt. Final.
My throat tightens. “Is he?”
Lorenzo’s eyes flash. Something raw pushes up behind them, then gets shoved back down.
His voice comes out rough. “Don’t.”
“Why?” I ask, the question spilling out. “Why do you look at me like I ruined you when you’re the one—”
His hand tightens slightly on my jaw, not hurting but a warning. “Because you left.”
The words hit.
Again.
Always that.
My voice cracks. “You don’t know what I—what they did—what they told me—I thought—”
“I don’t care what they told you. I care what you did.”
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. He’s so close I can feel his breath. His mouth hovers near mine, just a fraction away. I can’t tell if he’s going to kiss me or devour me.
My body leans in without permission.
My mind screams . . . no.
I jerk back like I’ve touched a live wire, and his hand falls from my face.
There is a beat of silence.
I wrap my arms around myself.
“I can’t,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I can’t let my head get messed up. Not here. Not with you. Not when—when everything is a lie, and you’re—”
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “You think this is your head being messed up?”
I glare at him through heavy lashes. “Yes.”
He steps closer again, but stops himself. His hands clench at his sides.
“It’s not Stockholm, Little Bird.”
My pulse accelerates. “What is it, then?” I ask.
His gaze pins me. “It’s you.”
The simplicity of his answer guts me.
My throat tightens. “You don’t get to—”
“I don’t get to what?” His voice rises, sharp for the first time. He catches himself, breathes once, then lowers it again. “Tell you the truth you’re choking on?”
My eyes sting.
I hate that.
I hate that he can still do this, make me feel things I don’t want.
I back toward the door, fingers fumbling for the handle without looking. “I need to go.”
Lorenzo’s gaze follows the movement like a knife tracking skin. “Run to your room.”
“It’s not running,” I snap, voice breaking. “It’s . . . choosing not to drown.”
His mouth curves, but it’s humorless. “You were always dramatic.”
“And you were always selfish,” I retort, yanking the door open.
Cold air from the hallway hits my face like a slap. I step out, then pause just long enough to look back at him.
He’s standing in the study, eyes dark. Hands clenched.
He acts as if nothing can hurt him, but that’s a lie. The proof was just shown to me.
I slam the door before I do something stupid, then head down the hall.
I reach my room and shut the door, pressing my back against it like it can hold the world out.