Page 74 of Broken Souls

“Don’t ask about him.” There is a warning in his tone, a dark jealousy amplified by my rejection of him.

“Why not?” I challenge, my head snapping up. “I care about him.Heactually trusted me.Heactually tried to stop you, andhewas the one to get Sau. He saved your fucking child.” A bitter laugh leaves my lips. “A child you haven’t once asked about.”

“I know she lives.”

“You know she lives?” I shake my head. “Fuck you.”

“You want to know why I haven’t asked about her?” he growls as he places his hands on my knees and shoves them apart. I try to keep my legs closed, but he steps between them, then hauls me forward by the hips until my pussy rubs against his cock. I try to squirm back, but his fingers dig into me, clamps that refuse to let me go. “Because all I fucking care about right now is howyouare. Yes, I fucked up, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I believed the evidence instead of my feelings for you. I wanted to punish you for kissing Antonio –”

“He forced –”

“Ididn’t care,” he admits, his words heavy and dark and twisted. “I didn’t fucking care if you wanted it or not. You aremine, Micha. And he got to taste you.” His eyes dip to my lips. “I wanted to skin his fucking touch off you.”

“Well, thank you for not doing that,” I say sarcastically, using the words as a shield to cover the pounding of my heart. Because no. No, I’m not going to accept his apology just because my fucking neanderthal says, “Grrr.”

“I know you hate me,” he continues as he cups the back of my neck, his hold firm and possessive. “You hate me for the rest of your life if you need to, little monster. Wake up and plan how to make me miserable every day if you must, but just fucking wake uphere. Beside me.” His head touches mine, and the sorrow pours from him, but I pull back and cross my arms.

“Oh, so you’d rather just let me hate you than fix what you broke?”

“Of course not.” He shakes his head, a flash of irritation in his eyes. He’s tired. I’m tired, and we’re both running ragged on emotions that have broken us, but I don’t want to beunderstandingright now. I don’t want to put in the effort of just ‘getting what he means’ so he doesn’t have to put in the effort of saying it.

“Just tell me how to fix this –” he starts, and I explode.

“Fuck you!You do not get to fuckingbreakus and then askmeto fix it. This is on you.Youcreated this mess.You. Hurt.Me.” I shake my head, my blood so fucking hot, I’m resisting the urge to throw my fire in his face.

“But if you just tell me, then you can stop hurting soon–”

“Fuck you!” I scream as I shove at his chest, mine so fucking tight it feels like I’m choking. And I know what it’s like to be choked. Thanks to fucking him.

But I don’t want to tell him. I want him to care enough to figure it out, to think about what he’s done and how he can prove to me that he won’t do it again. I want him to learn who I am and what I need and put in as much effort to fix us as what it took for him tobreakus.

Because he already told me he cared about me.

He already made me feel special.

Already made me believe in him, inuswith his fucking, “Let’s blood bond and be tied together forever” shit.

And because I understood his paranoia and his station and his fears and all the experiences wrought on him, I let him get away with bringing the bare minimum into this relationship. I let him just talk the talk, to fool me with his words that were only ever said behind closed doors.

And look where that got me – strapped down to a chair and tortured.

So I can’t trust just his words. Can’t trust him at all if he doesn’t put any effort in to soothe my worries when he’s the one who created them in the first place.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Heal your fucking hands.”

I open my mouth, but he cuts in, “Don’t you want to see if it’ll work? If you can still use magic through a wand?”

My heart jumps into my skull, pounding hard as I glance at the thin tapered piece of wood in my hand. A part of me desperately wants to try, to believe that he hasn’t stolen all of it from me, but the other half is terrified of the answer. If I try to use the wand and it does nothing, then what am I?

A freak.

I wince.

An abomination.

I glance up at him, and he must see the guilt in my eyes, the direction my thoughts took me because his walls come down, shutting me out. He’s been called an abomination all his life for his lack of magic.

A cold, bitter laugh breaks through my lips. “We could be matching abominations.”