I hear the door open. Fuck. “Tate, get the fuck out before I shoot you.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I don’t roll over until he forces me to. I know what I look like, a hot damn mess.
Tate’s expression is one of sympathy. And I hate it.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you feel sorry for me.”
“I can’t help it. I do.”
“I’m not a victim.” Not anymore.
“No, you’re no victim, but you are human. You can try and hide that as much as you want. But I can see it. You’re strong, but you also care. Maybe a little too much. So much you have to bury it away so the emotions don’t destroy you.”
My vision becomes cloudy with tears. I blame it on the watery mascara burning my eyes. But really, it’s him. He’s right. My emotions are torturing me because I’m letting them. I’m not fighting them. I’m letting them take control. I’m tired today. Tired of warring with myself, tired of denying myself the things I want. Of the people I want because I’m afraid of getting hurt. Abuse twists you in a multitude of ways. It warps your mind. It makes you turn on yourself. You all of a sudden falsely believe it’s your fault. It gaslights you until you can no longer trust your own thoughts.
It’s a dark, isolating place. And I have lived there for way too long.
“Are you in love with Stefania?” I ask the question that has been eating me alive for weeks.
A strange smile spreads across Tate’s delectable mouth. It’s a mixture of amusement and curiosity and excitement. I imagine the way he kissed me with that mouth, powerful and commanding. With the same soft arrogance he carries himself with.
“No.” He swipes the pad of his thumb underneath my eye, and it comes away black. My kohl eyeliner is wreaking havoc on my face. “My heart has always belonged to someone else.”
An insane sense of relief alleviates the pressure that’s been sitting on my chest since the moment I witnessed Stefania kiss Tate.
“Why did you say no last night?”
Tate’s eyebrows raise. “I thought you didn’t remember anything from last night?”
“Bits and pieces are coming back to me,” I fib.
“Because . . . I wanted it to be right.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I confess.
The sorrow in Tate’s eyes makes me feel deranged. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m sorry,Tiburona.” Tate stands, pulling me with him. “I’ll show you what I mean. Do you trust me?”
I smirk. “No.”
“You’re a smart woman.” He kisses my hand, right over my swollen knuckles. I probably should have iced them last night. “Does this hurt?”
I glance down at my hand. “I’ve had worse.”
Tate doesn’t insult me with another pitiful look. Instead, he leads me into the bathroom. For the first time, in a very long time, I allow a man to have some control.
He flicks the shower on, then begins to undress. I just watch him, unsure what to do.
“Is this supposed to be a peep show?”
“No, I’m going to undress you next.”
