I nod. “I think you deserve it.”
That finally does something.
He steps into my space, close enough that my back hits stone I didn’t notice before. The air between us feels charged, brittle, like it might shatter if I breathe wrong.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?” I whisper.
“Turn me into a tragedy you’re apologising for,” he snaps. “I didn’t lose my life because of you. I chose it. Every step.”
His hand comes up—not rough, not gentle—and cups my jaw, forcing my eyes to his.
“You don’t get to decide I’d be better without you,” he says. “You don’t get to make me smaller so you can survive walking away.”
I shake under his grip.
“I just want you to stop,” I plead. “Please. Just—stop. This isn’t who you’re supposed to be.”
He leans in, forehead almost touching mine.
“This is exactly who I am,” he murmurs. “You just forgot because I let you.”
My chest caves in.
“I didn’t forget,” I whisper. “I tried to live with it.”
The silence following my words is a parasite, eating away at the distance I’m trying so hard to maintain. I can feel the heat radiating off him—the smell of rain, copper, and that dark, heavy scent that is purely, undeniably Kai.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t snap. Instead, his hand moves from my jaw, his thumb trailing over my lower lip with apressure so light it’s agonising. It’s the first time he’s touched me without the intent to bruise or restrain, and the tenderness of it makes me want to scream. It’s more terrifying than his rage.
“You tried to live with it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a register that vibrates in my chest. “But you didn’t, did you, Scarlett? You just built a prettier cage and called it a life.”
His other hand reaches into the pocket of his damp trousers. He pulls out a small, amber vial. It looks like a jewel in the moonlight, filled with a thick, honey-coloured liquid that catches the fractured light from the trees.
My breath hitches. “Kai?”
He doesn’t answer. He flips the cap with his thumb. The movement is fluid, practiced. He doesn’t look at the bottle; he keeps his eyes locked on mine, pinning me to the stone as he brings the vial to his own lips.
I watch, mesmerised and horrified, as his throat muscles work. He swallows half of it, his eyes darkening, the amber liquid staining his bottom lip. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, my hands coming up to his chest, not to push, but to steady myself as the air around us grows thick.
He doesn’t speak. He takes the last of the liquid, holding it in his mouth, his cheeks slightly full. He leans in, his shadow eclipsing me, and his hand slides to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my wet hair.
He looks at me with a hunger that is purely predatory, a silent apology wrapped in a death sentence.
Then, he crashes his mouth onto mine.
It’s not the violent collision from before. This is a slow, methodical invasion. His lips are slick with the cloyingly sweet, medicinal taste of the liquid. I gasp in surprise, and that’s all he needs. He uses the opening to tilt my head back, his tongueforcing my mouth wider as he spits the viscous, drugged liquid directly into my throat.
I try to pull away, my hands clenching his shirt, but he holds me firm. He’s drinking me in, his mouth sealed against mine, forcing me to swallow. The liquid is thick, tasting like concentrated nectar and bitter chemicals, sliding down my throat in a heavy, inescapable wave.
“Swallow it, baby sister,” he mutters against my lips, his voice a low, distorted growl.
I choke on the sweetness, my eyes wide and searching his for a reason, for a hint of the man I thought I knew. I swallow. I have to. He won’t let me breathe until I do.
When he finally pulls back, a thin silver thread of the liquid connects our lips for a heartbeat before it breaks. I stumble, my head suddenly feeling like it’s filled with lead. The world tilts. The trees above us start to swirl, the moonlight turning into a long, blurred streak of white.
