She’s trying not to fall apart in front of me.
I did this to her.
“Tate,” I plead. “I’ll let you go. Just breathe.”
She freezes, meeting my eyes with a glare hot enough to brand me. Her shoulders rise and fall with rage-fueled pants,and I welcome them. I welcome anything that takes away from the sadness in her eyes. I’d rather she lets her hurt out like this. Seeing her cry is too much. Absorbing her anger is easier, even if the thought of her walking out and hating me is more than I can handle.
“Just breathe,” I repeat.
We stare at one another, and I try to commit the exact pattern in her irises to memory, tracing over each swirl of blue in them that fan out from her pupils like notes suspended on the lines of a musical staff.
A song I don’t deserve to ever hear, let alone play.
“I don’t love you.” Her words fly from her lips as she spits them out. She’s lying. But the venom in her tone still cuts deeply. “I don’t love you, Sullivan Beaufort.”
I scan her face, swallowing down a burning in my throat as I do what I have to for both of our sakes.
I pretend I believe her.
“Good. I don’t deserve your love.”
“You don’t,” she agrees, holding my eyes. “But Molly does. And Idolove her. You don’t get to tell me I can’t. You can tell me we’re over. You can stop me from seeing her again. But you can’t stop me from loving your daughter. No one can.”
My heart seizes.
Molly.
Tate shoves at my chest one final time and my arms fall from around her, letting her go without hesitation. My eyes sting and I work my throat to hold back the prickling sensation behind them that’s threatening to erupt.
She loves Molly.
I didn’t cry at my mother and brother’s funeral. And I’m not going to cry now.
This is what has to happen, even though letting her go just became a billion times harder.
I wait for her to climb from my lap. To walk out of my home. Out of my life.
“I’m sorry,” I utter.
Tate searches my eyes, and the fire burning in them flares as she leans closer.
Then her lips are on mine again.
She rips at my shirt and tugs at my belt with determination.
“What are you doing?” I say into her fierce kiss.
“Shut up.”
She yanks my shirt out of my pants, a high-pitched tear piercing the air as the fabric rips.
Her kiss grows more frantic, her teeth sliding over my lower lip.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp into her mouth.
My words only feed her anger, and she bites me, sending a shot of metallic warmth coating our tongues as they wrap together.
“Shut up and touch me,” she grits. “You don’t get to be the one who controls this. If this is over, then I’m ending things my way.”
