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He’s had years of practice.
My fingernails dig into my palms when he rounds the kitchen island, my heart in my throat and my stomach in my feet.
Nothing is where it should be, not now that he knows I’ve been up to something.
Reaching out, he tangles his fingertip with the ends of my hair and tugs. Not hard, but enough that I flinch at the small movement, my throat struggling to swallow around a jackhammer pulse.
“I’ve been waiting for you to admit you were over there on your own, but fuck if I’m not that patient.”
Ezra grins, and it’s one of those looks that means he’s not only planned how he intends to brutally murder you, but has also picked out a nice location to bury your body.
Many people have claimed to be scared shitless of this man, and I’ve never understood it.
Until now.
Ezra is looking at me like I’m a stranger. There’s distance between us now, this cold, lonely place where I’ve never kissed his bruises and he never asked me to be his alone.
The past six weeks have done nothing but dig this chasm, hopelessly burying us both. He’s known about William and me this entire time, and rather than saying anything he’s struck out at me with angry words and painful insults.
He’s hurt me because my silence was hurting him.
“I’m not sure this is the best place to discuss it. Gabriel is asleep in the living room and might wake up-“
His thumb brushes the line of my jaw, the gentleness of that touch at odds with the fury in his eyes.
“He’s had enough to drink that he’ll sleep through anything at this point.”
I almost wish that wasn’t the case. Gabriel will never be my friend, but he would step between us if Ezra crossed the line.
When Ezra ducks his head and traps my eyes with his, I can’t help the shiver that courses through my body.
He’s so close.Tooclose. His heat mingling with mine until a bead of sweat rolls down my temple.
I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and I worry that he might not have complete control of his thoughts and actions.
Much like how it feels around Damon, Ezra’s energy is chaos around me, a cold bite of wind, a frenetic pulse of violence that stings and sparks like electricity against my skin.
I don’t fight when his hands lock over my waist and he lifts me to the counter, my knees parting to accommodate him as he presses even closer.
If anything, I’d prefer this conversation be had over the phone, with me in a different country and an entire ocean between us.
“Tell me,” he says with a soft voice that terrifies me.
I can’t tell him.
Not the truth anyway.
Because if I say something to him, I’m in a world of shit with someone else.
Why did I answer that fucking text?
Here I am again.
Lying.
But only because I have no choice.
“I wanted to know the truth. And since you weren’t giving it to me, I decided to try and find out on my own.”
