Tell her no.
Tell her she’s mine. That she’s been mine since the first time she looked at me like she hated me and I still wanted tostand between her and the whole goddamn world. Tell her that after last night, after her skin under my hands and her trust in my chest and her mouth shaping my name like it wasn’t a curse, she can’t hand me divorce papers and expect me to bleed quietly.
And me giving her the one thing I never thought I’d have the strength to give.
Freedom.
My throat burns like I swallowed glass. I can’t do this anymore. If she doesn’t want me now, then I have to walk away.
“Okay,” I say.
Her eyes widen.
One word. That’s all I can get out. It sounds like gravel dragged over jagged bone, but it’s there. It’s done. I said it. I’ll sign away the only thing that ever made me believe I might not be my father’s son after all.
Her lips part and she looks so wrecked that it nearly kills me all over again. “Okay?”
I force myself to nod. It feels mechanical. “Yeah.”
My hand is shaking now. Fucking shaking. I hate it. Hate that she can see it. Hate that I’m not strong enough to keep this clean for her. If I’m going to lose her, I should at least lose her like a man. Like someone who can stand up and take the bullet without making her watch him bleed.
I reach for a pen and stop as Ami makes a soft sound. I don’t want to look up because I think if I do, I might start fucking crying.
But I do. I look up and what I see isn’t what I expect. She’s looking at me, but instead of hatred, there’s a look of confusion. Her eyes still glistening with tears, but also something else.
“I told you,” I say, staring back down at the top page because looking at her might ruin me. “Whatever you ask.”
“Gage—”
“No.” I shake my head once. “Don’t. You don’t have to explain. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me a damn thing.”
“I do,” she whispers.
My eyes flick up.
She’s crying again, but there’s something else under it. Something fierce. That thing in her I’ve seen before, buried beneath all the fear and grief and rage. A woman who bent for years and never fucking broke.
“I do owe you an explanation,” she says, and her fingers twist together in her lap now that she doesn’t have the papers to hold. “Because you’re standing there thinking I’m leaving you.”
Standing.
I’m not standing. I’m still on my knees.
Somehow, it feels right.
“I’m not thinking it,” I rasp. “You just handed me divorce papers, darlin’.”
The endearment slips out before I can stop it. I almost hate myself for it, but I can’t take it back. I don’t want to. If these are the last minutes I get with her, she can have every truth I’ve got left.
Her face crumples and then steadies. “Yes.”
The pen digs into my fingers.
“Yes,” she repeats, stronger this time. “Because I want this marriage over.”
There it is.
The kill shot.
