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He cut his hand through the air in a way that had me taking a step back, though I was already several feet away from him. “I don’t give a fuck who she sleeps with.”
“You sound defensive,” I accused, trying not to let my tone sound as wounded as I felt at the idea of him getting jealous over her.
His angry eyes studied me. “Not at all. I said the exact fucking thing I meant. I don’t give a damn what or who she does.”
I didn’t miss the implication in every word he said. “So did she or didn’t she fuck Nate? Now I’m confused.”
His hands were in fists now, his shoulders heaving. “Now you sound like the jealous one. You’re the one that brought up fucking Nate! Would it bother you if she slept with him?”
I couldn’t help it. Meeting his rage filled eyes steadily, before I could stop myself, I gave him the truth he didn’t deserve. “I don’t give a damn what or who he does.”
Oh no. Now I’d done it.
He was up, approaching me for that, something spilling out of his eyes that I couldn’t stand. “That thing with him, was it only to hurt me?”
“Stop it.”
He was on me, hands in my hair, our faces pulled close, though I refused to look at his. “Tell me. Please. For so long, I didn’t think I could forgive you for that. I was sure I couldn’t, but, fucked up as it is, if you tell me you did it to hurt me, tell me you did it to break me, tell me anything as long as you tell me you didn’t feel something for him, before or after, then I can forgive it.”
I was trembling, head to toe. In rage. In fear. “Stop it. Fuck you. I don’t owe you anything. We were done when it happened. You betrayed me before I ever betrayed you.”
“Promise? Do you swear it?”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I repeated.
“Please. Tell me you did it to hurt me. Tell me it only happened after I hurt you. Please.” The arms holding my head angled to his were trembling as badly as I was.
Our combined shaking felt powerful enough to move the ground beneath us, to bring down the house that held us.
“I don’t owe you anything.” I had to force out every gutted syllable.
“I’m begging you. Have you ever seen me beg? Begging you. Tell me, lie to me if you have to, but tell me you did it hurt me. Tell me he didn’t mean anything to you.”
My hands were gripping his now for support. I thought I might collapse otherwise. This was why he always won. He used every weapon at his disposal, created new ones for his cause, until I felt too defenseless to fight him.
“I did it to hurt you,” I admitted, the words wrenched from my soul.
He tried to kiss me, but I fought him, heaving away.
“What about you and her? Was that only to hurt me?”
He looked so crushed at the question that I lost my breath.
He couldn’t even meet my eyes.
“Answer me. I answered you, so you answer me, you son of a bitch. Was that only to hurt me?”
“I’m sorry.” His voice was unsteady. “It’s complicated.”
I should’ve known better than to ask. The wound had been festering but at least it hadn’t been fresh. Now it felt opened anew, and it hurt much more.
Of course, that wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. I wanted an answer as uncomplicated as mine had been.
The Bastard.
But I’d known the answer before I asked it. The timeline didn’t add up. He’d betrayed me with her before he ever had a reason to want to hurt me like that.
“I hate you,” I told him, quietly and vehemently.
“I hate that I still love you.” Just as quiet, just as vehement. Far more destructive.
God, with just a few words he’d almost defeated me. I was a sore loser, though, so I did my best to recover and limp away.
I was nearly clear of the room, one foot already in the bathroom, when he finished me.
“I hate that I’ll never stop,” his voice was soft but no less impactful.
I went into the bathroom and locked him out.
I was in the shower before I realized what he’d done. I’d gone to bed with one chain around my neck and woken up with two.
I held up the newest one. It was a key.
The bastard had put it on me while I slept.
He’d keep me chained to him in spite of everything. This I knew. I hadn’t needed proof.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
PAST
We were at our old swimming hole. We hadn’t meant to come here, we’d just been walking and talking and stumbled upon it, and once we saw it we remembered.
The spot was nothing new to us, and it shouldn’t have been so strange, except that it’d been a long time since we’d been here, years at least now that I thought about it, and I didn’t have a swimsuit.
Still, when we were kids I’d gone swimming in my T-shirt all the time. Dante never said anything about it, in fact, even though I was sure he had more swim trunks than he could count back home, he’d usually just join me in his shorts, and even though I knew he only did that to make me feel better, which should have made me feel worse, I appreciated the gesture.
My shirt now was too short for me. It barely reached the top of my high-waisted, too tight jean shorts, but I didn’t care. I figured my underwear covered at least as much as most bikini bottoms, and I had a nice flat tummy that seemed to draw Dante’s eye whenever the least bit of skin was exposed.
