Page 47 of Vega

My eyes widened. Fear hit so fast that I forgot how hungry I was. “What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

My hands curled into the comforter, gripping them with fear that Dior was dead.

“I went to let him know you were okay,” he said.

“But I’m not okay.”

“You’re alive.”

A weak laugh left me. “For how long?”

“For as long as I can protect you.”

The word sounded so ridiculous coming from him that I almost laughed again.

“Protect me?” I stared at the black mask covering his face. “I know you’re here to kill me.”

His head tilted slightly. “How do you know that?”

I said nothing.

He stepped closer. “What did you see that night at the lake?”

I frowned as if I didn’t understand the question. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“I hate the beach,” I added. “Sand gets everywhere.”

Silence stretched between us. I could tell he was watching for the lie. Studying the way I blinked, breathed, swallowed. I knew Roman had sent him, so he knew exactly what I had seen.

But I wasn’t admitting anything.

If Roman had sent him, then the truth was the only thing keeping me valuable and the only thing that could get me killed.

So I stared at him like I was confused, like I hadn’t watched a man murder his own son, like I might still find a way to walk out of that room alive.

He stared at me for another long moment, then looked at the tray he had placed on the nightstand. “Eat.” His eyes returned to my face. “You’re looking too weak.”

He turned toward the door, and panic rushed through me before I could stop it.

“Why are you dragging this out so long?”

He paused with his hand near the knob.

My voice shook when I asked, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”

The room went quiet. For one second, I thought he might answer.

Instead, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Eat, Glasses.”

My eyes narrowed at the nickname as he shut it behind him.

The lock clicked. That small sound broke something in me. I stared at the door, waiting for him to come back, waiting for the lock to turn, waiting for any proof that I still had choices. But none came.

A sob climbed out of my chest. Then another and another until I folded forward, clutching the comforter in both hands. I cried for the birthdays I had spent alone, the mother who hadn’t kept me, the father whose name I’d never known, and the family I had spent my entire life pretending I didn’t need. I cried for the life I had built by myself and the future I had barely begun to believe I deserved.