"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." I keep my finger pointed at the chair. Steady. My right hand, stays curled at my side. "Sit. Down."
He doesn't move.
"We're going to have a conversation," I continue. "A real one. And you're going to start having answers instead of 'I don't know' every time I ask you something important."
For a moment, he just stares at me.
Then he laughs.
The sound is low. Rough. It does something to my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge.
"Look at you." His dark eyes sweep over me. "Getting bossy."
"Someone has to be."
"You’ve always been, cara."
I step closer.
"Apparently you don't know me as well as you think you do."
Something shifts in his expression. The amusement fades.
"I know you better than you think," he says quietly.
"Then prove it."
He tilts his head. Watching me. Calculating.
"Prove what?"
"Prove you know me." I cross my arms. "Because from where I'm standing, you've been tracking me for two years, showing up at my door bleeding, going through my things, cornering me against walls, and giving me nothing but 'I don't know' when I ask why."
His jaw tightens.
"Marina, that's not how things?—"
"That's exactly what it is." I cut him off. "You want me to believe you know me? Fine. Then talk to me. Tell me something real. Give me one honest answer."
The kitchen is silent.
I can hear the refrigerator humming. The distant sound of traffic from the street below. My own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Dante doesn't move.
Doesn't speak.
For a long moment, I think he's going to deflect again. Make another joke. Find another way to avoid the conversation we've been circling.
Then he sighs.
The sound is heavy. Exhausted. Like he's been carrying something for a long time and he's finally too tired to hold it anymore.
"Can we at least have this conversation somewhere I can sit better than the chair?" He gestures vaguely toward the living room. "The couch. The bed. I don't care. But if you want me to talk, I'd rather not collapse halfway through."
I look at him.
