“You were never a phase.” His voice is rough. Filled with emotion. “You were always the end.”
The words hit like a punch. Not because they’re romantic. Because they’re terrifying.
Because an ending isn’t gentle.
An ending is final.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I don’t know what to do with that kind of confession from a man who turns love into a weapon.
Lorenzo watches me struggle with it, eyes dark, and then his mouth curls.
He walks over to where he placed his glass, lifting it slightly in a mock salute. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully traumatized me, again.”
I blink, breathing again. “That’s . . . not the reaction I was expecting.”
He takes a slow sip, gaze never leaving mine. “I aim to disappoint.”
My heart races, and I still tingle from where his fingers touched my hair.
I’m frightened.
But I’m not even sure why.
The fear lodges under my ribs like a thorn.
I move toward the door.
I need to leave.
If I stay, I might do something stupid. Like reach for him again. Or forget I’m supposed to hate him.
Lorenzo’s gaze tracks me, slow and heavy. “Running.”
“Breathing,” I snap, turning toward the door. “There’s a difference.”
“Barely.”
I take a step and then stop. “Thank you for telling me . . .”
About the past. About its scars.
“Don’t mistake honesty for softness, Little Bird.”
I glance back, meeting his eyes for one beat. “Don’t mistake my concern for forgiveness,” I retort.
His smile is small. Dangerous. Almost proud.
I leave before either of us can say something worse.
Once I’m upstairs, I feel safe again.
Even though I shouldn’t
Because tonight, for the first time, I saw the wound beneath the surface. Which means I’m in even more danger than I thought. Because the moment you see the truth in the monster . . .
You start wondering if the monster can see the truth in you, too.
