I have to chase that thought out of my head, because his weight is against me and his breath is warm and sweet along my neck.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My voice almost breaks. “Please forgive me, Jax. I’m sorry.”
“Hush.”
“But I am. Not just for the leaving. For—” This time my voice does break, and I swear, then growl in frustration as I have to pull away to swipe at my eyes.
He draws back a few inches to watch me, and I duck my head away.
“For all of it,” I finish.
He puts a palm against my face, and I go still. His thumb traces along the damp line of my cheekbone.
“None of this is fair to you,” he says softly.
My eyes fill, and I grimace and pull away again. “Silver hell.”
But he catches my vest and holds me there. “They don’t even see whatthey’re doing to you. It’s making me hate the king.Youdidn’t use magic to cause harm.Youdidn’t rally the Truthbringers.”
Well, that chases away some of my emotion, and I can’t tell if it’s the slight treason—or the fact that I agree with him. “You cannot openly say that youhatethe king.”
“Sure I can.” His shadowed eyes spark with defiance. “Youshould say it. You’d probably feel better.”
“Jax. I don’t hate him.”
He uses his grip on my vest to pull himself a bit closer. “You hate him a little.”
That makes me flush, because there’s a kernel of truth to it. I can feel the warmth of him against me, and my belly clenches again.
I should let him go. I should stop this. Every time we’re together, our moments alone all feel like a rushed prelude to my departure. Jax deserves more than that.
His fingers are twining through the lacing of my vest now, and each gentle tug sends a little flutter of fabric against my skin. I shiver and let out a breath.
His eyes skip up to find mine, and somehow he’s even closer. It’s taking everything I have to keep from pressing him up against the wall of this stall.
But then I remember something he said earlier, when we were standing just like this. I put my hand over his, forcing it still.
“Do you really think I have a temper?” I say.
He studies me for a moment, his expression cooling somewhat. But something about it reminds me of that protective look when we spoke of the prince. “I think you’re angry.”
“Angry?”
“You’ve been coiled up all week. It reminds me of the way I used to act around my father.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Tycho.”
“I’m not!” But as I say it, the denial tugs at something inside of me.
It doesn’t help that Jax lets go of my vest to give me a not-so-gentle shove, right in the shoulder. “Oh, you’re not? Then why do you keep looking for a fight?”
“I’m not looking for a—”
Another shove, a little harder this time.
I give him a look. “Maybeyou’rethe one who’s—”
