“Promise.”
“Like ’95 Michael Bolton?”
Amusement alongside adoration pierce her softening stare. “You really shouldn’t know that song.”
“You really shouldn’t besurprisedI know that song, Gillybean.”
“And you should really tell me,” Dixon clears his throat, “what the fuck is going on in here.”
“That,” the dark-haired player whose name I never bothered to learn stabs the air in my direction from behind Tomas Rumlow, another member of in-house security, “fucking hillbilly-”
“You fuckin’ pigeon,” is growled in an interjection.
“-just Hulk busted his ass in here and started swinging!”
“You had your hands on my slayer!”
He leans forward and cockily flashes his bloody toothless grin. “She wanted it.”
“I did not!”
New bursts of anger rushing through me propel most of my frame forward, forcing Dixon to dart his arm out like a barrier. “No one puts their goddamn hands on my slayer but me!”
“Your. What?” quietly seethes a voice I wish was any other than the one it is.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
This ain’t at all how this was supposed to happen.
Gilly’s fingers fall from mine, yet I don’t shy away from repeating the declaration, “My Slayer.”
“No.” He swiftly shakes his head and shifts his stare over to his sister causing me to do the same. “No.”
Her mouth cracks open, releasing a second sound I wish was any other than the one I’ve come to know all too well.
The tiny hiccup has me pressing my lips together.
Tightly.
Shutting my eyes.
Swallowing down the lump of disappointment.
Really?
She was just gonna lie?
About us?
Andnowof all times?
Hell, was she even serious about the dinner this weekend or just gonna find a way to weasel us out of it?
To postpone this until a moment like this inevitably happened?
Why is being with me so fucking wrong?
Why am I here fighting forherwhen she clearly can’t be bothered to fight forme?
