Page 27 of A Vicious Love

“Do you want anything from the table?” I asked softly. “I can get you something, if you haven’t eaten.”

He looked at me then.

“Do I look like I need you to fetch me food?”

“No. I just thought⁠—”

“Stop thinking.”

My stomach dipped.

“I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.”

I pressed my lips together.

His eyes raked over my face. “Do you even hear yourself?”

I didn’t answer. The wrong answer would hurt. So would the right one.

He stepped closer, towering over me, whiskey glass loose in his tattooed hand. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Hand, please. Fix this, Jamjam. Look at me, Jamjam. Are you coming to my birthday, Jamjam?”

Each phrase landed like a slap because he said them in my voice. Mocking. The room blurred at the edges.

“I don’t sound like that,” I whispered.

“You absolutely fucking do.”

A few people nearby went quiet.

My face had gone hot, but my hands were cold.

“I was only asking if you needed food.”

“I need you to understand that I have actual problems tonight.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“No, Sienna. You don’t. You want everyone to clap because you managed to walk in heels again after twisting your little ankle. You want me to pat your head because you performed some dance I didn’t ask to hear about. Needing fucking attention every time you breathe near me, and I don’t have any left to waste.”

For once, I did not rush to fix the silence.

Jamison stared at me, breathing hard through his nose, as if I had somehow dragged that cruelty out of him and made him hold it in public.

Maybe he expected me to say it was fine and tuck his hand into mine and make him look less monstrous in front of Harlan.

I did not.

I stepped back.

His eyes narrowed.

I held my clutch in both hands and made myself look at him, really look at him. I had spent years making him smaller in my mouth.

Jamjam.

As if a nickname could turn a blade into something safe.