Page 22 of The Bastard's Lily

He lifts one brow. “Ash didn’t make you put onmyshirt.”

I stand. “Don’t do this.”

“Then don’t lie to me.”

Beau shifts again, mumbling in his sleep. I hold up a hand, warning him. “You’ll wake him.”

He just tips his chin toward the couch, voice a low challenge. “Then stop whisper-yelling and come sit the fuck down.”

I hesitate. “Why?”

His mouth ticks at the corner. “Because if you’re gonna keep telling me this doesn’t mean anything, I’d rather hear it while you're next to me.”

I hate him for that. For the way he never raises his voice. For the way he can still make me want to scream just by sitting there, arms sprawled across the back of the couch like he’s not breaking me apart. I pad across the room and lower myself onto the cushion beside him. There’s barely a foot of space between us. His thigh brushes mine.

“Happy now?” I whisper.

He shrugs. “Not even close.”

I sit stiffly, knees together, arms folded tight against my ribs like that might keep me from feeling his heat beside me. He doesn’t look at me. Just stares straight ahead, jaw flexing like he's biting something back.

I whisper, sharp, “Don’t look at me like that.”

He hums low. “Didn’t know I was.”

“You’re judging me.”

Now he turns, slow and deliberate. “I’m not judging you, Calla. I’m trying not to touch you.”

My breath catches. Stupid, stupid body. He’s always been dangerous—but the way he says my name like that? Like it tastes like whiskey and regret? It makes something in me unravel.

“You’re impossible,” I snap, voice barely audible.

“You’re infuriating,” he counters, just as quiet.

I glance at Beau. Still asleep, thank God. “We’re not doing this here.”

“No,” he says, leaning just slightly closer, “you’re not doing this. I’m just sitting here. Getting pushed away again.”

“You think I want to be here?” I whisper.

He barks a soft, bitter laugh. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me?”

“I’m not looking at you—”

“Then stop,” he growls.

I can’t. God, I can’t. He’s too close. Too steady. Too everything I swore I’d never let myself want again. His forearms are inked, veins roped beneath skin I used to kiss without shame. His knuckles are scraped and healing. His lip—Jesus, his lip is split again. He looks like a fight I want to lose myself in. But I can’t afford to.

“You don’t get to do this,” I whisper, angry now. At him. At me. “You gave me up.”

“I let you go,” he whispers back. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh, fuck off with your semantics.”

His jaw clenches. “Say it again.”

“What, fuck off? Gladly—”