I cross my arms. “She’s not The Watcher.”
“Okay,” Blake says, easy. “Then who?”
“I don’t know,” I snap, and I hate myself for it.
Blake touches my shoulder. Gentle. Anchoring.
“You’re not used to being cornered.”
“I’m not cornered.”
His eyes hold mine. “You feel cornered.”
I swallow. The honesty sits between us like a loaded gun.
“I don’t like her,” I admit quietly.
Blake nods. “Because she’s you.”
I flinch. “No.”
“She’s a mirror,” he says. “And you don’t like what you see.”
My voice goes cold. “I like myself.”
Blake smiles slowly. “You like your control.”
I stare at him.
Then, because I’m tired of pretending, I say the thing I don’t say.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
Blake stills. His hand tightens on my shoulder—not comfort. Possession.
“Of what?”
“Of her,” I say. “Of what she knows. Of what she could do.”
His eyes darken with something like pleasure. “Then we handle it.”
“No,” I say instantly.
His brows rise. “No?”
“I handle it,” I correct. “I don’t need you to?—”
Blake steps closer, voice low. “It would be a pleasure.”
Too calm. Too sure.
I search his face for softness.
There isn’t any.
I force a laugh. “You sound like a villain.”
Blake shrugs. “Maybe I am.”
