The memory of Grant Jameson’s dead eyes flickers through me. Lorenzo was not wrong. I’d managed to push back the relationship as far as I could, but it was only a matter of time.
“Don’t,” I grit out. “Don’t act like you’re some upgrade. You broke into my life like a wrecking ball, and now you’re standing in the rubble like you own the land.”
“I do own it,” he replies, completely unbothered. “Metaphorically. Legally. Financially.” His eyes flick to mine. “Emotionally, we can debate.”
Something in me snaps so loud I’m surprised no one hears it.
I shove him. Two hands flat against his chest, pushing hard.
He rocks back half a step, more surprised than moved.
He’s solid as stone.
Was he always this strong?
His brows lift like I’ve offered him a gift. Then slow amusement unfurls across his face.
“Well.” He glances down at my hands. “Look at you. Violence. I’m touched.”
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I spit, yanking my hands away. “You don’t get to joke.”
He chuckles low, and the sound curls around my spine. “You’re adorable when you think you have options.”
I shove him again. Harder. He lets me this time. Moves with it.
He’s acting like I’m a child throwing a tantrum, and he’s humoring me so I can tire myself out. The humiliation burns hot behind my eyes.
“Stop that,” I snarl.
“Stop what?” He spreads his arms, smirking. “Letting you touch me?”
“Stop acting like this is funny,” I fire back. “Like my life is some game you’re playing to entertain yourself.”
His gaze sharpens. Slowly, he steps into my space, crowding me backward. I stumble, my back hitting the wall. He plants one hand beside my head, close enough to trap me without actually touching me.
Then the other hand comes up to cage me in.
My heart beats so fast I think I might pass out.
We’re close. Too close. His breath brushes my cheek. It feels warm, but it also feels like it’s edged with something darker underneath.
His eyes are fixed on mine, unblinking.
“Funny”—he leans in a fraction—“is not the word I’d use for you.”
My fingers curl against my side.
I should be terrified.
I am terrified.
But that’s not the only thing cracking under my skin, and I hate myself for it.
My pulse is hammering everywhere: my throat, chest, low in my stomach. The air between us hums, charged, like the second before lightning strikes.
“Let me go,” I whisper, hating how thin it sounds. “You’re crowding me.”
“I’m barely touching you.” His eyes dip to my mouth and back up. “If you think this is crowded, you’re out of practice.”
