“I wasn’t alone,” I say.
The air changes.
Nightshade stills so completely it’s like he’s gone carved from stone.
“Who?” he demands quietly.
“Ghost.”
The name lands heavy between us.
His gaze darkens, something possessive and ugly flashing there before he reins it in. “You went off with him.”
“We talked,” I correct. “In the stairwell.”
His hand comes up, bracing against the door beside my head, not trapping me but close enough that the intention is unmistakable. “Did he touch you?”
“No.”
“Did you want him to?”
I hesitate. “No.”
“Did he kiss you?”
The question is sharp. Bare.
I meet his eyes without blinking. “No.”
Something in him loosens – just a fraction – and it infuriates me more than the jealousy itself.
“He didn’t try,” I add calmly. “He wouldn’t.”
That lands worse.
Nightshade exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to get himself back under control and failing.
“You don’t just vanish into the night with someone else,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “and expect me not to?—”
I step forward.
I’m the one who closes the last inch of space between us.
“I didn’t vanish,” I say, pressing my palm flat to his chest, right over his heart. “I came back. To you.”
His breath catches. I feel it under my hand.
“And if you’re going to look at me like that,” I continue quietly, “like you’re deciding whether to cage me or kiss me?—”
His hand slides to my waist, grip tightening. “You don’t get to provokethisand then pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I tilt my chin up deliberately, putting my mouth within a breath of his and stopping there. Letting him feel the choice.
“I need you,” I say. “Right now. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m here, choosing you.”
That’s what breaks him.
