Page 40 of Stolen Harmony

The words hit like a slap. “That's not?—”

“It's not what? True?” His eyes burned, but there was something behind them, something breaking.

I scoffed, weak but sharp. “You’re awfully invested for someone who claims not to give a shit.”

“You think I don't recognize self-destruction when I see it?” His voice got rougher, more raw. “You think I haven't been watching you tear yourself apart since you got back here?”

“Why do you care?” The question came out smaller than I'd intended, almost vulnerable.

He exhaled like it hurt. “Because she would have cared.” He ran a hand through his hair, and I could see his composure starting to crack. “Because every time I look at you, I see her. And every time I watch you hurt yourself, it feels like losing her all over again.”

The honesty of it gutted me. I wanted to lash out, to say something cruel enough to make him leave, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, I muttered, “Bet she wouldn’t approve of you hovering over me like a prison guard.”

“She’d approve of me keeping you alive.”

“See, there it is again—nagging.” My voice trembled, the mockery too thin to hide the truth underneath.

“And for the record,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, “I don't give a shit who you sleep with. Men, women, whoever makes you feel less alone for a few hours. What I care about is that you're using them like medication, and it's not working.”

“Funny,” I said bitterly. “You sound jealous.”

That stilled him for half a second, something flickering in his gaze before he shoved past it.

And god help me, the flicker made my stomach twist in a way I didn’t want to name. It was reckless and wrong, but there it was: the thought of Elias jealous sat too comfortably in my head. The idea of him caring who touched me—of him wanting to be the one—hit like a live wire. I hated myself for it, and I wanted it anyway.

“How would you know what works for me?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant, like maybe I could cut the thought out before it rooted deeper.

“Because I've been there.” The admission came out rough, like it had been dragged from somewhere deep. “After she died, I tried everything. Drinking, isolation, throwing myself intowork until I couldn't think anymore. Nothing worked. You know what finally helped?”

I shook my head, not trusting my voice.

“Talking to someone who understood.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat, could hear Roxie moving around under the couch, could hear the distant sound of Harbor's End waking up outside.

Roxie emerged then, trotting out like she owned the place, tail high. She jumped onto the coffee table, sniffed Elias’s sleeve, and gave a satisfied trill before curling up against his arm.

“Traitor,” I muttered. “She’s supposed to be my emotional support animal, not yours.”

Elias’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Maybe she just likes people who actually feed her.”

“Excuse me? I feed her.”

“Vodka fumes don’t count.”

I rolled my eyes, but the sound that came out of me was closer to a laugh than a retort. And it scared the hell out of me, because for one dangerous second, I wanted to lean into him—into the steadiness, the warmth, the way his presence made the room feel less empty.

The silence stretched. Roxie purred under his hand, perfectly content, while I sat there trying not to stare at the way his fingers moved—steady, careful, like he knew how to handle fragile things. My throat felt tight, and I hated that the thought of being one of those fragile things made something inside me ache.

Elias stroked Roxie absently, his gaze never leaving me. “Maybe she’s just smarter than you. She knows where the stability is.”

“Stability?” I scoffed, though my chest tightened. “You? With your tea collection and your perfectly folded sweaters? Please. She just likes that you don’t forget to feed yourself.”

For the first time, something almost like amusement flickered across his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. The air between us shifted anyway, the silence humming with something heavier than words.

“I don't know how to do this,” I whispered finally.