“You need to go home,” I state again, too worked up to soften that shit at all.
Her eyes narrow in offense. “Excuse me?”
I can’t fucking blame her, but this isn’t a time for naïveté-necessitating lengthy explanations. Holland admitted it himself—she’s not safe at all, and after tomorrow, I won’t be able to save her. “You need to go home. Now.”
“What?” Confusion replaces affront as she takes in my clearly agitated expression. “Why?”
I open my mouth, but then I quickly close it. There’s no going back once I open the Pandora’s box of information.
The existence of vampires, her destiny to be with one, her blood’s value—and the corrupt nature of the wealthy that transcends her species—aren’t the kinds of things that put a woman’s already anxious mind at ease.
They’re the kinds of things that send even the strongest into a spiral.
“You shouldn’t be here, Kylie,” I say as gently as I can manage.
“What do you mean, I shouldn’t be here?” Her expression hardens. “I have every right to be here, Rook. The game is over. The ice is free.”
“This isn’t about the ice being free, Ky. This is about listening to me because I’m asking you to,” I say with a groan she wrongly interprets as frustration with her.
“Pretty sure I’m under no obligation to do anything under command, from you or otherwise, without an explanation. The only one who makes decisions for Kylie Kay Moon isme.”
“I’m not trying to rule your life, I swear.” I sigh. “I know I’m not the man who paints the room with flowery faces and smooth lines and even a fucking smile. I know. But I’m asking you, please, to leave this rink right now and go straight home.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t recognize the man in front of her, both because of my demands and the temporary bout of kindness. I can see it scares her—her pulse is thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings—but there’s at least a tiny break in the wall between us too.
She canfeelit. Thisthing, my intentions, my desperation.
She lets out a deep sigh. “I came here to skate. Like I always do, Rook. I don’t see what the big deal is or why I can’t have thistiny, stupid moment for myself.”
She squints now, on the verge of tears as she fights against the war I’ve started inside her. I get it. I get it so much, and yet, I still have to be the asshole. Because people are watching us now—people, including Holland, who’s evidently returned to the ring for a second round.
Our enemies are too close for comfort and, at this point, may be making moves to preempt me by striking tonight, rather than tomorrow.
I lower my voice. “Please just go home.”
Her eyes narrow. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Fuck. “Jesus, Ky. Now isnotthe time to be a stubborn pain in my ass.”
Her jaw drops. “What did you just call me?”
Goddammit. Fuck this whole fucked-up situation.
I close my eyes, pleading with myself for patience. “Kylie. I’m begging you. On my metaphorical, grumpy knees, to please, please, go home.”
“You know what?” She huffs, abruptly tugging at the laces of her skates. “Fine. I’m going home. I’m going home and nailing the damn doors shut like a coffin until I escape whatever nightmare’s asshole this week climbed from.”
“Kylie, I—”
“Shut up. Just shut the hell up.” She rips her skates off her feet and tosses them into her bag. Her hoodie is pulled over her head next, and her bag is on her shoulder within seconds.
“I don’t know what your issue is,” she adds, eyes blazing, “but tonight is the last time I let you make it my problem. How about, in the future, just leave me the hell alone, okay?”
She storms past me, but mad is better than dead.
