I hold her tighter, my jaw clenched, throat burning. “Neither do I,” I admit quietly.
She just buries her face in my chest and breathes me in. Eventually, her fingers loosen on my shirt, and her head sinks into the hollow of my shoulder.
She’s asleep, and I stay awake.
Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the storm outside.
Feeling the weight of her in my arms.
I should feel triumphant.
Maybe even satisfied.
I should feel like I won.
Instead, I feel terrified.
Because I wanted her to suffer.
And now I’ve tasted something that feels dangerously like forgiveness.
Or worse—love.
I press my mouth to her hair, breathing her in. “Sleep, Little Bird, I’ve got you.”
And the most horrifying part?
I mean it.
55
Victoria
I blink at the ceiling.
Is it warm in here?
I turn my head toward the window. The curtains are half drawn, and bright morning light streams in through the gaps in the blinds.
Clips of last night filter through my brain.
His mouth.
His hands.
His voice.
The moment I kissed him . . .
I sit up too fast; the sheets slipping down my shoulder. Cold air bites my skin, and I suck in a breath, scanning the room.
Empty.
Unlike when I was sick, he’s not propped in the chair, fighting for rest.
I wrap the blanket around myself and swing my legs over the side of the bed, toes touching the rug. The necklace drawer flashes through my mind—diamonds like a collar, glittering proof that even his gifts are threats.
My stomach turns.
