He stops. No, he freezes. Yes, that is the correct word.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I saw you. I got to know you.”
“But you were going to.”
“Yes.”
I look at him. There’s misery in his eyes, but also resignation. He knew this would happen. He didn’t preempt it.
“Is this what you do?”
“Yes.” There is no hesitation on his end.
“Kill people?”
“Yes.” A confession without a defense.
“You’re just like all those men I left behind in Sicily. Aren’t you?”
“I don’t know those men.”
I give him a sad smile. “Now that’s a prevarication if I’ve ever heard one. You know them. Youarethem.”
“Maybe,” he admits.
It’s like high noon. We’re both standing our ground, hearts exposed, guns drawn. Neither of us is willing to fire the first shot.
The air between us is charged, humming with everything we’re too afraid to say.
One step forward, and we crash together.
One step back, and it all falls apart.
I step back.
“I can’t.” I shake my head and look down at my feet.
“It’s not safe for you to leave.”
“I don’t care.”
“Calista,” he growls.
He steps forward. Grips my chin. Raises my face, forcing me to look at him. “It’snotsafe.”
“I’ve never been safe,” I tell him. “I came here…to be withyou.”
“I’ll keep you safe.”
“You can’t both be my monster and my hero, Lucian.”
“Why not?”
He’s not stoic anymore; there is panic in his eyes. I’ve seen it before when I asked him for pain pills.
