“It kind of is,” I whisper.
He grabs my wrist—not hurting, just holding—trying to anchor me to him.
“Scarlett. I’m losing patience. Tell me the truth.”
The streetlights drift across the windshield like ghosts, flashing across his face, carving every line of tension deeper into him. His breathing is rough. His jealousy is a presence in the car—hot, thick, suffocating.
I stare at him with half-lidded eyes, my pulse buzzing.
“You’re not angry because I danced on a table,” I say softly. “You’re angry because I didn’t look at you while I did it.”
His jaw locks tight as a fist.
I smile.
He tries again. “Who’s influencing this? Who’s getting into your head?”
My heart stutters.
Kai’s face flickers across my mind—dark, wild, smirking from the shadows of the woods.
You woke screaming for me.
I swallow hard.
Noah sees it.
His grip tightens on my wrist. “There it is. You flinched.”
“I did not flinch.”
“You did. And you’re lying again.”
I snap back, “Oh please. Everything isn’t a conspiracy because I had a breakdown in the bathroom.”
“You didn’t have a breakdown,” he growls. “You were terrified.”
“I was hungover.”
“Scarlett.”
“Stomach bug?”
“Scarlett.”
“I was crying over mascara. It’s tragic how fast it runs?—”
“STOP IT!”
His voice cracks like a whip through the space between us.
Silence drops heavy.
Thick.
Tense.
My vision swims for a second from the alcohol and the adrenaline and the sheer force of the moment.
