That finally gets his attention.
His anger is still all over him—tight jaw, blazing eyes, violence banked just under the surface—but now something else breaks through it.
“Elizabeth?”
I can’t answer. I’m not here, not fully. I’m in two places at once—the sleek back seat of his SUV and somewhere darker, older, half-buried in my bones. My hand is still clutched at my neck like I can feel the phantom sting there, like if I press hard enough I can stop the memory from crawling any farther out.
He stares at me. “What happened?”
I shake my head, once, sharp and helpless.
My lungs refuse to work. My chest is caving in. Tears sting my eyes, hot and furious, because I hate this—I hate him seeing this, hate my own body for betraying me, hate that some part of me is terrified of a man who is not the man who took me and yet, in this moment, every door shutting sounds the same.
“Elizabeth.” His voice changes. Still rough, but lower now. Less fury. More alarm. “Look at me.”
I can’t.
The privacy screen. The tinted windows. The closed doors. Him blocking the way out.
I make a broken sound and shove myself harder against the door, as if I can melt through it.
His expression shifts completely then. The rage drains out of it, leaving something rawer.
“Open the partition,” he snaps at the driver.
The black screen hums and slides down.
Light floods in from the windshield. Space returns, just a little. Not enough. But a little.
“Open her door,” he bites out.
There’s a click.
I don’t wait. I lunge for air, half-falling out of the SUV before I can stop myself, one shoe hitting pavement awkwardly as I catch the doorframe with shaking hands. I bend forward, dragging breath into my lungs like I’ve been underwater too long.
Behind me, Lorenzo is suddenly there but not touching me. His voice is low when he says my name again, and the worst part is that it no longer sounds angry. It sounds afraid.
“I’m fine,” I snap, shoving his hand away the second he reaches for me. “Leave me alone.”
“You’re not fine.”
I whirl on him, not caring that he can see the tears streaking my face, not caring that I must look half-mad.
“You’re right,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m not fine. I want to talk to Dante.”
The words hit him like a blow. I see it happen. His expression changes with brutal clarity, like I’ve driven something sharp straight between his ribs. For one savage second, that should satisfy me. Instead, it just makes me feel emptier.
“Cara—”
I laugh, and the sound is wrong. Too high. Too brittle. It scrapes its way out of me like something fraying at the edges.
“Why do I even bother?” I swipe at my cheeks, but the tears keep coming faster than I can wipe them away. “Forget it. Just take me back to your stupid house, Lorenzo.”
He stands there for a moment looking utterly unlike himself. Not cold or furious, but helpless. And somehow that unsettles me more than his anger ever could.
His jaw tightens once, as if he’s swallowing down everything he wants to say. Then he steps back and gestures toward the SUV with rigid, careful restraint, like he’s afraid the wrong movement will send me bolting into traffic.
As I pass him, he reaches for me, his hand hovering at the small of my back. I flinch so hard it’s practically violent. His hand drops at once. I don’t look at him again. I climb into the SUV with stiff, jerking movements and slide across the seat until there’s as much distance between us as the interior allows. The open space doesn’t help. Neither does the lowered partition. Neither does the rush of air still clinging to my lungs.
