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LUCIA
My hand gripping the edge of the door so hard, it hurts, I watch Atlas make me tea.
Once he has the honey and lemon juice stirred in, he adds a single piece of ice to cool it down enough for me to drink without burning the roof of my mouth.
Too bad he isn't as worried about causing me emotional pain as physical.
What is wrong with him? He's acting like we're still together when we both know he was using me and my weakness for him to get information for his damn Hades Brotherhood.
Atlas lifts the mug. "Do you want to drink this in here, or in the bedroom?"
I want him to leave, but that doesn't look like it's happening until I drink the damn tea.
Leaving the door open, I approach the table. "In here."
I'm not inviting him into my bedroom. My body is still reacting to his like he's safety, affection, sex and everything good in between, but my mind? My mind knows the truth.
Atlas is my enemy, not my boyfriend. No matter what my ovaries try to tell me. Those little buggers are in a timeout for leading me into this situation in the first place.
He puts the mug down on the table and then takes a step back, like he knows I won't sit down until he does.
He's right.
As I shuffle over to the dinette chair, I'm in a nightmare, every move at the treacle slowness of a dream. Only, unlike in my dreams, I feel every ache in my body and heart.
Atlas watches me, his gaze never once wavering as I sit down.
Taking a sip of the tea, I realize how thirsty I am. All that crying. It's not like me. I didn't lose it like that even after I learned of Tino's death. How can I be more devastated by Atlas's betrayal than the death of my husband?
The tea helps the soreness in my throat with the side benefit of settling my stomach that has been roiling since Atlas and his crew showed up in the club earlier. No way am I going to admit that to my ex-lover though.
Atlas leans against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, and watches me drink.
I pretend not to notice.
"When do you take possession of the house?" His deep baritone shatters the silence.
Glaring at him, I consider which is better: not to answer at all, or to tell him it's none of his business.
I go with, "None of your business."
There won't be any signing of the papers.
"I know you are angry right now."
"Do you? How astute of you."
He frowns. "We can work this out."
Yeah, not happening. "There is nothing to work out."
"I am not giving up on us."
"There is no us!" The shout strains my already abused vocal cords. "There is no us," I repeat in a near whisper before gulping down hot tea.
It soothes my throat and I concentrate on that sensation, not the ache in my heart.
"There is an us. You are mine. I am yours."
