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I huff.
I glare up at him, met with a face, perfectly masculine yet boyish, bruised and scarred, so beautifully damaged it seems to reflect my soul. I can’t breathe when I look at him up close. I scowl to stop from melting. “I already told you that I don’t let boys come.”
His lips curve softly. “I’ll just make you come then.”
My shoulders deflate, and I squeeze the case in my hand, considering beating him with it. “Why are you doing this, Xander? We’re not friends.”
“I don’t want to be your friend.”
“Good!”
“I want to lick your pussy until you cry.”
“Good! I mean— Fuck off.”
His brows draw together behind his floppy dark fringe. I don’t know what he’s feeling right now, but I think he swallows something painful. “Youcried, Woman.”
I scoff. “So?”
“So”—he talks tightly around the words— “I. Fucking. Care. I felt it. And I cared.”
“Me too!”
“Let me help you then.”
“Is this your thing? Helping the downtrodden?” I punch words at him. “I thought you were fucking brilliant or something. Isn’t that what everyone in the city says? Xander Butcher is a certified genius, but he wastes it in the ring. Well, you could use some of that brilliance to learn social cues. I don’t want your help. I’m fine. Perfect, actually!” I raise my voice and almost stomp on the words. “Don’t you know how fucking perfect the Lovit daughters are!”
“You finished?” he asks tightly, every part of him exuding strength and tension, his arms and shoulders curved, a flesh-made barricade that pins me to the car.
I am finished.
Destroyed.
I glare at the concrete between our feet, at his trainers grazing the front of Chloe’s flats.
“It’s not for you, then,” he whispers, deep and hoarse. “It’s for me. Can you handle that? Can you handle the fact that when you cried last night,Ineeded to see your tears? I needed to see real emotion last night, and it was…” His head drops to mine, and that heavy pained breathing strokes my cheek. “Was so. Fucking. Real.Ineeded it.”
“You want to see my tears?” I mock softly, not feeling the taunting tone at all but reeling from his warm breath. I inhale with pain and anguish and anger. His air. The air circles his body, lifting the scent of him around us. Man. Mint. Rubber.God.I focus, clearing my throat and saying, “You’re not a genius. You’re fucking insane.”
“I could be both.” There is a small smile in his voice. “All the great minds are.” He pulls back and I breathe slightly better with that slither of space, though my lungs seem to heave for more ofhisair—starved for it.
“Finished,” I murmur, relenting, flopping against the car and gazing up, falling into his topaz-blue eyes. “Iamfinished, Butcher. My whole family, my name is finished. Finish is a— ah… What did you call it? A contronym. It means to have completed something, right? And to have destroyed it.”
My throat thickens.
Those fucking tears start to burn my eyes again—pinpricks of bullshit and sentiment.
“I don’t want to cry,” I say in a way that carries a personal plea for him to somehow make it stop. Make it end.Can you?“It’s just a house. Just money.”
He sighs roughly. “Is that why you cried last night?” He’s still so close. Our souls so strangely unravelled when together, we may be the only two of the same creatures on the planet. “They are taking your house, huh? And all your things?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’mpissedthey are taking my house.” Then I admit, “But last night, I cried because they are taking my dad away. Locking him up.”
He stares at me, his eyes doing a long sweep of my face, considering whether to offer up advice or give me his condolences. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”
“I’m—"
“No.” I smash my index finger to his lips, forcing him to hush. “Don’t say anything. People say a lot and mean nothing. I don’t need to hear that you’re sorry for me.”
