“I can’t,” I whisper, voice shaking. “I can’t let my head get messed up. Not here. Not with you. Not when—when everything is a lie, and you’re—”
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “You think this is your head being messed up?”
I glare at him through heavy lashes. “Yes.”
He steps closer again, but stops himself. His hands clench at his sides.
“It’s not Stockholm, Little Bird.”
My pulse accelerates. “What is it, then?” I ask.
His gaze pins me. “It’s you.”
The simplicity of his answer guts me.
My throat tightens. “You don’t get to—”
“I don’t get to what?” His voice rises, sharp for the first time. He catches himself, breathes once, then lowers it again. “Tell you the truth you’re choking on?”
My eyes sting.
I hate that.
I hate that he can still do this, make me feel things I don’t want.
I back toward the door, fingers fumbling for the handle without looking. “I need to go.”
Lorenzo’s gaze follows the movement like a knife tracking skin. “Run to your room.”
“It’s not running,” I snap, voice breaking. “It’s . . . choosing not to drown.”
His mouth curves, but it’s humorless. “You were always dramatic.”
“And you were always selfish,” I retort, yanking the door open.
Cold air from the hallway hits my face like a slap. I step out, then pause just long enough to look back at him.
He’s standing in the study, eyes dark. Hands clenched.
He acts as if nothing can hurt him, but that’s a lie. The proof was just shown to me.
I slam the door before I do something stupid, then head down the hall.
I reach my room and shut the door, pressing my back against it like it can hold the world out.
My hands tremble.
My chest aches.
I hate him.
I hate this house.
I hate the part of me that still remembers what it felt like to love him.
I close my eyes, swallowing down the panic.
“It’s just this house, this space . . .” I whisper to myself, like a mantra. “It’s survival. It’s nothing.”
