I think there is a chance that Atticus is fighting—that hewantsme to stay yet is trying to protect himself. From me. Because I’m not as kind as I once thought I was, and I’ve crushed him.
“No,” I answer, my response simple and unwavering.
“No?” he repeats.
“That’s right. No.” This time, it’smewho closes the distance, stepping forward so that our chests brush. It feels likefire. “I’m not going anywhere until we’ve spoken.”
Something like approval, like he’s pleased, crosses over Atticus’s features, the corner of his lips quirking momentarily.
Then, it’s my typical grumpy Atticus again, and he returns to glaring.
“Someone’s learned how to make their own choices,” he observes with a deceptively blank tone. “How wonderful.”
I can tell immediately that he doesnotthink this is wonderful.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I counter. “I just know, which is rare, yes, what I want.”
Atticus’s eyes brighten, betraying his scowl, as he stares down at me with so much heat, so much anger and longing, that I could drown in it.
But I have to focus. I have to remember what I’m here to ask, rather than how it felt to swallow his dick and make him crumble as he so frequently made me, without even being around.
Only as I’m about to speak again, his eyes fall from mine to stare at my neck, and all of that longing and heat disappears.
It’s replaced by something possessive and feral.
“What is this?” he asks in a low voice, his hand lifting to press his thumb right into the hickey on my neck.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I question, considering it washimwho gave it to me. Or, at least, I hope it was.
His eyes flare.
“Don’t push me, Cameron,” he hisses. Then, he’s pressing on the bruise with enough force for it to hurt, but I keep the reaction to myself.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he starts, “that I want to know who did this to you. Whomarkedyou.”
So he has no idea it washimwho did it? Or someone, something, that looked like him? I guess that answers my question without it ever needing to be spoken.
Whatever was in my room last night was not Atticus. Not really.
But I can remember what he—it—said. Thathewas inside, wanting to touch me just as badly. Did that mean Atticus? Is something or someone taking over his body and tracking me down, only for Atticus to sit on the inside, dying for a taste?
The thought makes me shiver, makes me desperate.
But my hesitance in responding is taken the wrong way, and Atticus all but literally growls, shoving me backward until he has me snugly pressed against a neighboring tree.
Again.
History is repeating itself; can I change the outcome this time?
“Not going to answer me?” Atticus sneers.
“Why are you so bothered?” I shoot back.
My desire to fix this is kind of being flooded by his push and pull. Just last night I was pathetic, and now he’s acting like a jealous beast. With each shove of his hands, my anger rises, as if the testosterone in my body is fighting between a hungry need and a ravenous rage.
“Bothered?” Atticus spits out. “I’m notbothered; I’m furious. I just had my tongue shoved down your throat, and you turn up with a hickey? Are you doing this on purpose?”
