"I am protecting myself."
"By accusing me of being a spy?"
"By acknowledging the statistical probability—"
"Fuck your statistical probability!" I'm shouting now. "I'm not a data point! I'm not a security threat! I'm the woman who climbed onto your chest two days ago and cracked you open with my bare hands while crying because I thought you were going to die!"
"And I appreciate—"
"I don't want your appreciation!" Tears are burning at the corners of my eyes. "I want you to trust me! I want you to believe that I would never betray you! I want you to stop treating me like a corporate acquisition and start treating me like—"
I stop.
Because I don't know how to finish that sentence.
Like what?
Like his mate?
Like the woman he's biologically bonded to?
Like someone he loves?
Cyprian is staring at me.
His amber veins are flickering wildly now—orange, gold, orange, gold—like his body can't decide whether to calcify or melt.
"I cannot," he says.
His voice is hoarse.
Wrecked.
"I cannot trust you. I cannot allow myself to be vulnerable. I cannot—"
He stops.
His entire body shudders.
And then his skin begins to change.
Not softening.
Hardening.
The slate-gray color deepens to charcoal. The crystalline veins go dark. His face becomes a mask—completelyexpressionless, completely unyielding, like someone carved him out of granite.
Stone-lock.
But not the kind I've seen before.
This is different.
This isintentional.
He's calcifying himself on purpose.
Building a wall between us.
