That was the problem.
I should have regretted it. I should have apologized. I should have remembered Georgia’s sweater on the chair and the ring on Georgia’s finger and the promise I had made when I looked at a good woman and tried to build a life out of everything Destiny wasn’t.
Instead, all I could think was no.
No to Bennett looking at her.
No to Old Town.
No to mezcal.
No to another man discovering how her laugh sounded when she forgot to guard it.
No to anyone touching that loose curl against her cheek.
No to all of it.
Destiny stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You don’t get to do that.”
That hit.
Because she was right.
Didn’t make the jealousy go away.
“What?” I asked, because apparently I was determined to bleed from more than one wound.
“Act like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like it matters who asks me to dinner.”
It did matter.
It mattered so much my whole body went hot with it.
It mattered enough that if I could stand, I might have forgotten every stitch holding me together and done something stupid. It mattered enough that I wanted to tell Bennett to get out. Tell him she was mine. Tell him she had been mine since firelight and grave dirt and a kiss that ruined me for every decent woman who came after.
But she wasn’t mine.
I had made sure of that.
I looked at her.
Really looked.
Saw the anger. The hurt. The way she wanted me to fight and hated me for wanting it. Saw Mandy’s fear in her too, the terror of wanting what belonged to another woman and becoming the villain in a story already bleeding from every side.
That sobered me.
A little.
“You’re right,” I said.
The words scraped out.
They tasted like surrender.
