"Iamcomfortable here! Why did you get rid of all your things?!"
He waved away her words with a small shrug and a click of his tongue, his genuine look of bewildered concern melting into the mask of disaffected nonchalance he wore so often. Her stomach twisted to see it here, in the place where he was meant to set his masks aside.
"It was just a sofa. I should've gotten rid of it two years ago. My back might not be as banjaxed as it is if I had."
Her jaw moved, but she could not form words to rebut his casual claim. It wasn't just the sofa, she wanted to scream, already knowing he'd point out that it was, in fact, just the sofa that was gone. He could rationalize needing the pool tabledownstairs, even though the Pixie and her clientele had not needed it at any point in the past year. Itwas, technically, just the sofa.
But it was also the paint and the rug and the soft, watery color palette. He'd replaced an older piece of furniture with something brand-new, was what she knew he would tell her. But he had replaced it with something forher. Something in her style, soft and cozy and classic, something that she might have chosen for her own apartment.
She didn't like the pressure that was clawing at her throat, and didn't want to give voice to the ridiculous swell of emotions she felt. He would tell her it was nothing at all, but Silva couldn't help feeling that he had managed to erase himself from his own space, and that he'd somehow done it with nothing more than a rug and a bit of paint.
“Why are you doing this?”
"Silva—"
She didn't feel inclined to give him a chance to make excuses as she wiped at her tears. "Why are you pushing me away?"
She didn't understand him. She didn't understand anything. He had been avoiding her. She'dnotimagined that. Since the night of his party, he'd been putting her off, keeping her way, coming up with one excuse after another. And yet, at the same time, he'd redecorated his entire apartment . . . specifically for her. Silva turned, surveying the distressingly lovely room once more, feeling sick as she did so. It made no sense. Nothing about the situation made sense, and she wondered if that extended to their relationship at large.Are they serious? How can they be? They don't make any sense at all.
"Why would you do this? This is all forme, Tate. Don't pretend it's not.”
She whirled to face him, eyes wide and still brimming with tears. Every tender moment of the past several months played back in her head in a whir, like a sped-up movie reel.
She had discovered a sofa on the roof, tucked under an alcove and protected from the elements, near the overgrown garden he had been tending. He and Elshona had put it there when they'd first put the garden in, before abandoning the project, he’d explained with laugh. It had become her favorite retreat on those balmy summer nights, pulling him up the staircase to snuggle with her beneath the stars. He'd set up a bistro table and two chairs beside the garden plot and strung fairy lights against the brick, creating a perfect romantic dinner spot for two, which they indulged in several times a week. A bottle of wine, whatever gourmet feast he cooked for her, and their feet propped up on the edge of the building when they moved to the sofa, where he would kiss her slowly in the warm air, sultry and secret and sacred.
He'd taken her to a speakeasy-style underground poker club, where she’d delighted in batting her eyelashes and working on her hustle, celebrating her ill-gotten gains on chocolate martinis at the dessert bar in Starling Heights, as he had laughed so hard into her hair he claimed he was going to be sick. They had walked along the waterfront there, pausing to listen to the selkies calling to each other in the blackness, invisible out in the waves.
She had watched as he took his sleek racing motorcycle apart piece by piece, painstakingly putting it all back together again before she donned the helmet he’d purchased for her. She had clung to his back, squeezing him with her thighs and holding on for dear life, the sound of her screams lost to the wind as they sped along the rural highway far too fast, but almost like flying. He had painted her toenails and she had braided his hair, andshe didn't know how it was that all of that seemed so broken and far away just a few weeks later.
“You don'twantme here. You've made that crystal clear for the past month. You don't want me around, you're pushing me away, and I don't understand why."
She was unable to continue through her tears, her throat closing on a sob she managed to choke down as he closed the distance between them, pulling her into his arms once more.
"Dove, you couldn't be more wrong.”
She pushed against his chest, batting ineffectually like a tantruming kitten, but his arms never slackened.
“There's never a minute of the day when I'm not thinking about you, Silva. There's not a single day I don't want you here. I want you with me every second of every day, by my side, but that's the worst place for you right now. This is the only way I know how to keep you safe, dove."
"Safe fromwhat?!” He explained it away so easily. She thought his reasoning should have been just as easy, but he only shook his head, looking pained. “I'm sotiredof being treated like I'm too delicate to know where we stand. People treat me like I'm an empty-handed little doll, and I'msotired of it. If you don't want me here, Tate, just say so and I'll go. But stop treating me like I'm stupid."
"Oh, but youarebeing stupid, Silva."
There was no heat behind his words, but she heard the vehemence there as she shook with frustration. She wanted to hit him, wanted to shred his skin with her nails, wanted to reduce him to pulp for making her feel this way, just as much as she wanted to wrap him in her arms and protect him from any more hurt, pulling them back to one of those soft, summertime memories. Right now, though, all she wanted to do was scream.
"I've told you once before, you're the only one playing against the odds. You have everything to lose and you're throwing it allaway. For what, dove?” Tate gripped her chin, two of his long fingers stretching up to span her face, tilting her up to face him, holding her in place before him. "I’m trying to keep you safe fromme, Silva. I’m the scariest thing in the dark, remember?” He had locked onto her with a vise-like grip, and there was no shaking him off. “This is what I do, Silva. This is what I am. I'm good at fooling people, that's my strength. I'm good at making you believe that all is grand, that I'm a good sport, that I can be of value to your life. You walk away thinking we’re the best of mates and you never question my intentions for a second.”
His thumb drifted, finding her pulse point. Silva felt the pressure, knew how easily he could crush her windpipe without even exerting much effort. She leaned in, increasing the press.
“I'm good at slipping my way in, dove. And by the time you realize what I am and that you’re in danger, my jaws are already at your neck. I'm a monster, Silva. That's what I've always been. And I can’t keep you safe if you’re here.”
For the first time, Silva didn't shy away. She was tired of havingthisconversation as well.
"And you're so certain that a monster isn't what I want. Maybe Iwantteeth at my neck, did you consider that?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, trembling with her frustration. “Did you think that maybe that's what I need? That maybe Iwantto be devoured? That you're the only one who's not seeing things clearly?"
His lips met hers roughly, her head bouncing from the force with which he yanked her forward, but her hands were now free and she scraped her nails down his neck, feeling the needle-like glance of his teeth.
"Maybe I just want an excuse to be a monster, too, Tate."
