Not enough to grab the gun or to touch me. Just enough to make it worse.
“You’re this fucking furious,” he says, voice low, steady, eyes locked on mine, “then do it.”
My finger tightens again.
He sees it.
Doesn’t flinch.
“Orput it down,” he says, “and let me fix what’s mine before you ruin it.”
Mine.
The word hits so hard my stomach twists.
At his chest. At the carved letters. At the blood.
At the maddening stillness on his face. At the man who crossed a line I drew with both hands and is still standing there like he put a ring on my finger instead of ink in my skin while I was out cold.
I hate him.
I hate that some sick part of me understands exactly what this was to him.
I hate that he expected me to understand it too.
I hate that my hip burns.
I hate that he’s right about one thing—it does need to be rebandaged.
Slowly, I lower the gun. Not all the way. Just enough to stop aiming at his face.
Something shifts in his eyes. Something darker.
Quieter.
Like disappointment with teeth.
That pisses me off too.
“Don’t touch me anywhere else,” I say, my voice raw. “Just fix it. And if you try anything, I’ll put a bullet through your throat.”
“Da.”
He says it like he believes me.
Like that’s the only reason he’s being careful.
I set the gun on the bed beside my knee without taking my eyes off him.
“Don’t mistake this for forgiveness.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t need your forgiveness.”
That lands harder than I want it to.
He moves then.
No smirk. No triumph. No apology.
