A weapon.
A confession I didn’t give him permission to say.
“I—I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
It’s not an accusation.
It’s an observation.
“Try again,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “What do you want right now?”
I try to speak. I really do. But my throat’s tight, my mouth dry, all the words I could say dissolve the moment he reaches up and runs the back of his knuckle across my jaw.
Slow.
Barely a touch.
Enough to set my skin on fire.
“That’s what I thought,” he whispers.
I should run.
I should say no.
I should turn around and find Lola and pretend like this never happened.
But instead—I whisper the one word I shouldn’t.
“Show me.”
His eyes flare.
A flicker.
A flash of something that feels like triumph.
He leans in, close enough that his breath brushes my lips.
“You don’t get to change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Say it.”
I swallow. “I won’t.”
And then—just like that—he steps back.
But not far.
Just enough to drag a chair out from the wall, spin it, and sit in it backwards, arms draped over the top, legs spread like a fucking throne.
Watching me.
Waiting.
