She says fuckingnothing.
I close my eyes and press my forehead to hers, my hands still framing her face.
“Yes,” she finally whispers.
And there it is.
It bloody hurts.
A lot.
“Who?” I grit out. “Who is the soon to be dead man? Tell me now. The sooner I make you a widow, the better for my bloody sanity.”
“I can’t tell you that,” she answers so easily.
And somehow that only makes me angrier.
The very next second, I crush my mouth to hers. One hand grips the back of her head as I kiss her with all the frustration, anger, and desperation that rips through me.
“You’re mine,” I whisper into the kiss.
I take her lower lip between my teeth and bite hard.
“Fucking mine.”
I pull back and search her eyes.
But is she really?
I release her and put a few feet between us before turning towards the door.
“Hunter,” she says.
I don’t turn.
“Do you love him?” I need to know. The not knowing is fucking killing me.
She stays quiet for one long, agonising minute.
Or perhaps it’s only seconds that feel like minutes. Maybe they’re merely a few bloody seconds that feel like an eternity.
“No,” she finally whispers.
I wrench the door open and leave. I need out.
Away from her. Away from the bane of my existence.
I’ve just found out that the woman who’s become my every waking thought is married.
Bloody married.
But she’s mine.
At least, that’s what I’ve told myself.
The truth is, she never was.
I get into the car and speed through the dark, snow covered roads.
