“Let’s go home.”
“Your place?”
“No, Da’s.”
Her body stiffens, the fight returning in her voice. “I don’t wanna go there.”
“I don’t make the rules, Lil’. Not about this. You know that.”
My voice is low, careful. I pull her in close, tucking her beneath my arm like it’s nothing, like it’s muscle memory, not a need that drives me to the brink of insanity. She fits against me like she belongs there and that’s the goddamn kicker.
How can she be so perfect for me and yet not allowed to be mine? What kind of cruel twist of fate is that?
I guide her toward the car, forcing my steps to stay steady, pretending I don’t feel the way her body leans into mine—light, exhausted, and impossibly warm.
When we reach the passenger side, I open the door for her, helping her in. And if my hand lingers a moment too long on hershoulder—fingers brushing bare skin, heat pulsing through that fragile point of contact—well… that’s between us.
She’s silent all the way across town. Makeup smudged, eyes distant and glassy. Lips bruised, raw from that asshole’s mouth. My knuckles ache from gripping the wheel so tight I’m afraid I might break something.
Her laugh echoes in my mind—soft, light, completely out of place. I see her pressed against that guy, her name probably still a mystery to him. I want to tear him apart for it. I want to protect her from everything, even if she doesn’t want me to.
By the time we pull up to Da’s place, it’s well past midnight. I half-carry her through the front door, hoping Da’s already passed out. Her heels click against the marble floor, scuffing the floor once I set her down. My hands stay on her shoulders, steadying her, keeping her anchored.
She drags a foot, voice barely a whisper. “I hate it here.”
“I know.”
She looks away, voice dropping lower. “I hate her. She called me a whore today.”
The words hit me like a punch and a muscle twitches in my jaw. I want to shout, to fight back, but I stay quiet. I can’t fix this, not yet. Not like this. I need a little more time to work things out, so instead, I do what I can, and guide her upstairs.
At the top, she clutches my arm, her voice small. “Stay. Just for a little while.”
I shake my head, hating that I can’t give her what she wants, what she needs. But the risk of getting caught… of doing something we’ll end up regretting is too high to ignore.
“Not this time.”
She looks at me like I’ve just broken her. Like I just took something from her. But I don’t have anything left to give. Not tonight, not after that goddamn photo. I’m hanging on by a thread as it is.
I nudge her into her room, leading her to the edge of her bed.
“Drink this.” I hand her a bottle of water from her bedside table. “And lock your door behind me. I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay?”
She mumbles something I don’t catch, her eyes fluttering closed. I give her one last long look before I turn, closing the door gently behind me, and stand there a moment, forehead pressed against the wood.
It’s not until I hear her shuffle closer, twisting the lock, that I drag myself away.
By the time I stumble through my front door, it’s nearly three in the morning. The city’s gone quiet, but I’m still thrumming with adrenaline, nerves pulled taut beneath skin that still feels like it’s burning. Every muscle aches with something I can’t name—rage maybe, or guilt. Or that goddamn hunger I never manage to kill.
I toss my keys onto the counter and they clatter against the marble like a gunshot in the silence. I don’t bother turning on the lights, I just move on instinct, dragging open the freezer door and reaching for salvation.
My hand closes around the neck of a half-empty bottle of vodka, frosted glass slick in my grip. I twist the cap off with apracticed hand and drink straight from the bottle. The burn is familiar—sharp and punishing, but still not enough.
I brace my elbows on the counter and let my head hang, eyes squeezed shut, my breath uneven.
This can’t go on.
God, it can’t.
