I keep my forehead against hers, voice low and vicious and breaking in places I hate.
“Let me fix it.”
My hand plants on the wall beside her head.
“Let meendthem.”
Her eyes squeeze shut.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“Youcan.”
“I can’t.”
She ducks under my arm before I stop her, towel clutched tight around her body while she grabs clothes with shaking hands. Sleep shorts. A shirt. She drags them on fast, wet skin making everything clumsy, and walks out of the bathroom without looking at me.
I follow.
She gets to the living room and turns like she expects me to block the exit. Maybe I would on any other day.
Not this one.
Not when she looks like she might fall over if I breathe wrong.
“Ayla.”
My voice sounds wrecked. I hate that too.
She shakes her head. “Maks, I can’t.”
“You can.”
“No.” Her breathing starts going uneven. Fast. Thin. “I can’t do this withyou.I’m not going back with you.”
Her eyes flick toward the door like she’s measuring distance.
Then she says, “I’m not even staying in the city. I’m leaving.”
The words hit me like a blade slid in under the ribs.
I take one step toward her.
She stiffens.
Rage flashes hot enough to scorch straight through my fear.
“Tell me who did that to you.”
She says nothing.
I point toward her face. Her wrists. “Tell me.”
Silence.
My voice cracks across the room. “Who are you afraid of?”
She shakes her head again.
