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Him.
I take the knob and turn it, pushing my way inside, going against every ounce of sensibility in me.
He has Allison now.
The curtains billow in the breeze.
He doesn’t want me to want him.
The room is dimly lit. The terrace outside dark.
I’m leaving.
There’s music playing, a slow, haunting track. I’m ruined.
I swallow, padding toward the open terrace doors, the music getting louder.
I can hear the lyrics.
“Oh God,” I whisper, chills rippling through me, so much so, I hug myself, coming to a stop on the threshold of the terrace. Standing. Listening to Tamer sing Beautiful Crime.
I lose my breath when I see him shirtless in a chair, staring into space, the smoke of the cigarette resting in his limp hand on his knee gusting messily in the breeze. Messy. This whole situation is messy. And if I don’t turn and walk out, it will get messier.
His elbow is wedged into the arm of the chair, his fingertips on his forehead holding his head up.
Despair. Despondency.
Regret.
It’s pouring out of his weary body.
Because of me.
Leave.
I swallow back the renewed emotion climbing into my throat, trying so hard not to snivel and disturb him.
I fail.
He slowly cranes his head back, his eyes lifting to mine.
And something slams into me. Something powerful. Something I’m incapable of describing. He holds my eyes for an eternity, looking at me like he both loathes me and admires me. I don’t know what’s happening. Where this insane connection came from. I didn’t ask for it to happen, it just happened, and despite everything I know—and much I’m sure that I don’t know—I’m struggling to fight it. Resist it. When he was worshipping me, the world as I knew it no longer existed.
And that’s a dangerous feeling for me to have.
My eyes begin to burn from staring at him for so long, and I see his shoulders lift with an inhale as he finally breaks the deadlock, turning away, taking a drag of his cigarette.
Leave.
And yet my legs refuse to take me away.
I tentatively move closer, the breeze wafting his cologne toward me, the heavy, familiar, manly scent mixing with his cigarette smoke and swirling around my head, making me dizzier. Intoxicated.
Leave.
Rounding the chair, I stand before him, my breathing quick. He doesn’t miss it, his gaze on my chest—watching me struggling to be near him—before his eyes slowly climb my neck to my face. I see the wave of contempt drift across his face. But I stand firm. I don’t wilt.
“I would say thank you,” I say quietly, “but I know you won’t appreciate my gratitude.”
