Everything I want is wrong.
Everything I remember is poison.
I dig my fingers into my hair, trying to pull myself back into my body, but the frustration won’t settle. It builds. It swells. It claws at my ribs until it feels like something inside me is going to snap straight through my chest.
The door handle clicks.
Noah steps inside.
He doesn’t knock. He doesn’t hesitate. He closes the door behind him with a quiet finality that shakes something loose in me.
His expression isn’t calm anymore.
It’s wrecked. Angry. Wild in a way he never lets himself be.
He stares at me—jaw tight, chest rising and falling too fast, blue eyes bright with something dangerous.
“Scarlett,” he says, voice rough.
The anger that’s been coiling inside me ignites like gasoline.
“Don’t,” I spit. “Do not start this again.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he snaps. “You are.”
“Me?” I laugh—sharp, hysterical. I point at him with a trembling hand. “You treated me like I was losing my sanity at that ballroom!”
“You are,” he fires back, stepping closer. “You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see him in your eyes every time you get that faraway look? Every time you flinch? Every time you lie to me?”
“I’m lying?” My voice rises. “About what?”
He takes another step, heat radiating off him in waves. “About the way you feel. About what’s in your head. About who’s in your head.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
“Shut. Up.”
I’m shaking—angry, exhausted, suffocating—and the room feels too small to hold it.
“Stop acting like you know everything about me!”
“I know enough,” he snarls.
“You know NOTHING!” I scream.
The words rip out of me—raw, furious, desperate.
Noah freezes.
The silence between us is thick, pulsing, electric.
Then something snaps in him.
He crosses the room in three steps, fast, reckless, grabbing my arm—not to hurt, not to control, but because he can’t not touch me. His chest crashes into mine, breath hot against my lips, fury and desire tangled into something combustible.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m your enemy,” he growls.
