Page 66 of What We Burn

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I yank my wrist free, the touch burning like a brand. “No. You’re not getting off that easy. Sorry doesn’t cut it—not after you called me that night, pulled me away, and she almost died because of it. Because of you.”

“I’m sorry.” He stands, stepping closer, his eyes pleading, raw with regret.

“Stop.” My voice cracks, anger surging hot and bitter. “You think repeating it makes it true? You don’t get to apologize now, not when you broke her—broke us—like we were nothing. Like I was nothing to you.”

“I’m sorry.” His voice is softer, but he doesn’t back down, closing the distance until he’s right in front of me, his breath mingling with mine.

“No!” I shove him back, my chest heaving, fists clenched. “Fuck you, Eli. You don’t get to do this—act like you care after pushing everyone away. After making me choose between you and her safety. Sorry? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I’m sorry.” He reaches for me again, his hands framing my face, thumbs coming away wet.

“Stop saying that,” I choke out, and the sob that comes up out of me is raw and ugly and years old. The anger goes out all at once. What’s underneath is worse. “Stop.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and then we’re kissing—desperate and filthy and overdue. He tastes like the salt off my own face. I shove him against the counter.

“You fucking wrecked me,” I growl against his lips, biting down. Hard. He hisses and I taste copper on my tongue.

Good.

I want him bleeding. I want him marked. I want him to hurt even a fraction of how much I do.

He grabs the back of my neck and yanks me closer, his mouth opening under mine, and it’s a fight more than a kiss—tongues and teeth and his fingers digging into my skull like he’s trying to hold on to something he already lost. I shove him backward into the island and the stool clatters to the floor. Neither of us flinches.

“Take your fucking shirt off,” I order.

He strips it over his head. In the dim stove light his chest is all shadow and ribs, thinner than I remember. He hasn’t been eating. The bruise from Holden’s fist in the garage has gone a sick purple-green across his lower ribs.

I put my hand flat over the bruise and press.

Eli sucks air through his teeth. He doesn’t pull back. His eyes find mine and hold—dark, steady, daring me.

“Does that hurt?”

“Yes.”

I press harder. He takes it. His jaw locks and his breathing goes shallow. I can feel his cock thicken against my hip through those threadbare sweats, and that makes me so angry I can barely see straight.

“You’re hard,” I accuse.

“So are you.”

I am. I hate that I am. I hate that even now, even after everything, my body still responds to his like some trained reflex I can’t unlearn.

I’m like Pavlov’s fucking dog for this fucking man.

I drop to my knees, grab his waistband, and yank his sweats down rough enough that they catch on his cock and he hisses again. He’s hard, flushed dark, the head already slick. I don’t ease into it. Don’t tease. I grip the base, angle him down, and take him into my mouth so deep my eyes water as I gag.

“Fuck— Micah!”

I pull off. “Did I say you could fucking talk?”

He shuts his mouth. His stomach muscles clench as I swallow him again, my hand tight around the base, my other hand braced against his hip bone hard enough to leave fingerprints. I don’t suck him the way I do when I want someone to feel good. I suck him like I’m trying to take something back. Rough, fast, too much pressure, my teeth grazing the shaft every time I pull back. It’s not kind.

It’s not supposed to be.

His hand finds my hair. I slap it away.