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Turning away from him, I reach into the drawer and snap up the underwear and jeans. One of my tanks and a pair of socks.
I dress quickly, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he’s still looking at me. That leaving is the last thing I want to do.
I’m at the door with my hand on the knob before he speaks.
“We’re not finished.”
I look over my shoulder, almost against my will. He’s standing now, hands dug into his pockets. The shock of what just happened is wearing off for the both of us. He’s supposed to be mortified. He’s supposed to apologize. Tell me it won’t happen again, even though we both know it’s a lie. He doesn’t say or do any of those things. He just keeps staring at me like he’s trying to remember where he put his roll of duct tape.
He wouldn’t need it. If he came for me now, I’d go with him. I’d give in.
Anywhere.
Anything.
He stays where he is, his words hanging between us like a promise.
Like a threat.
We’re not finished.
I turn away from him and open the door.
I leave.
And Declan lets me.