She's standing ten feet back, arms crossed, chin lifted. Ready for battle.
The last light of sunset catches her hair, turns it copper at the edges, and my fingers itch to bury themselves in it.
To fist it tight and pull her head back and finally, finally taste her mouth.
I curl my hands into fists at my sides instead.
"Ask," I say.
"Ask what?" She doesn't move, doesn't uncross her arms.
"Whatever you came up here to ask." I spread my hands, a gesture of openness I don't feel. "I'll tell you the truth. I've never lied to you, Liberty. I'm not going to start now."
She stares at me for a long moment. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we're not saying.
"The apartment. That was you."
"Yes."
"The jobs. All of them."
"Yes."
"My parents. The roof, the medical bills, the—" Her voice cracks. She swallows hard, and I watch her throat work, watch her force the words out through sheer will. "The grant that wasn't a grant."
"Yes."
Each admission lands like a blow.
I watch her absorb them, watch the understanding settle into her bones, and something dark and satisfied unfurls in my chest.
She knows now. She knows what I am. What I've done.
And she's still standing here.
"How long?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been doing this?" She takes a step toward me, hands dropping to her sides, curling into fists. "Controlling my life. Manipulating everything around me. How long, Elias?"
I consider lying. Consider softening the blow, making it easier for her to swallow.
But I've waited eight years to have this conversation. I'm not going to waste it on lies.
"Since you left."
She goes pale.
The color drains from her face so fast I think she might faint, and I have to lock my knees to keep from reaching for her.
"Eight years." The words fall out of her mouth like stones. "You've been doing this for eight goddamned years."
"I've been waiting for you for eight years." I keep my voice gentle. "It's different."
"There is nothing different about it!" Her voice cracks across the terrace like a whip, and the sound of it—the raw fury, the betrayal—makes my cock twitch in my pants. "You've been stalking me. Controlling me. You—you paid someone in the VA, didn't you? That's how you know about my nightmares. About Martinez."
I don't deny it.
