I met his eyes, hard and unyieldin’. “When it comes to Lark, this is what you’re gonna get.”
The room went quiet after that.
I took my coffee and headed for the door, every step driven by stubborn pride and the kind of hurt that hardens instead of bleeds.
She hadn’t come back.
So in my mind, that settled it.
She was with Zach.
And if that was the choice she made, I wasn’t about to humiliate myself by beggin’ for the truth.
I’d already given her more than I’d ever given any woman.
I wasn’t givin’ her the satisfaction of watchin’ me chase after her too.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
IT HAD BEENfour days.
Four mornings of waking up in a quiet room that wasn’t Chain’s, sunlight spilling across lace curtains his mother had picked out years ago, the smell of coffee drifting up from the kitchen. Four nights of lying awake, staring at a ceiling fan that turned too slow, my chest aching with everything I hadn’t said and everything I was afraid he’d never let me say now.
I was staying at Chain’s parents’ house.
Right under his nose.
The irony of that hadn’t stopped hurting yet.
It helped that his parents weren’t here. Briar said they were off on one of their camping trips and wouldn’t be back for a fewmore days. The house felt paused in their absence, like it was holding its breath along with me.
Briar sat at the kitchen table across from me, legs tucked into her chair, hair pulled back in a messy knot like she hadn’t bothered fighting it this morning. Two dogs were settled at her feet. She flipped through a basket of vet bills and feed receipts, lips moving silently as she added numbers in her head.
I watched her for a long minute, my mug cold between my hands.
She knew everything.
I’d told her that first night when she picked me up, my voice shaking so badly I’d barely gotten the words out. About Zach. About the note. About the motel. About Chain walking in at the worst possible second. About how it had looked, and how wrong it all was.
She hadn’t interrupted once.
Just listened.
“You’re wearin’ a hole in me,” Briar said without looking up.
“I’m not,” I muttered.
She lifted her gaze, one brow arching. “You’ve been starin’ like you’re about to confess to a murder.”
I huffed out a breath. “Feels like one.”
She leaned back in her chair, studying me in that quiet, unsettling way she shared with her brother. “You can’t keep doin’ this, Lark.”
“Doin’ what?” I asked, even though I knew.
“Hidin’,” she said simply. “Waitin’. Punishin’ yourself.”
“I’m not hiding,” I said. The lie sounded thin even to me. “I’m givin’ him space.”
