Page 40 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

“Scarlett,” I mock, “here I thought you of all people would appreciate the beauty of things that were dead inside.”

She is so set on seeing life inside of me.

As if I’m not filled with decay and reeking of rotting flesh.

She believes good still swims around in my bones and I’m able to do things like feel emotion. It’s all a delusion; I’m a figment of her imagination. A dream of a boy who saved her that she made up in order to bear her mother’s death.

A dream can’t just be a dream to her. No, to her, it’s me fighting demons. It’s me being human.

How pathetic.

Anger flares in her reaction, her snippy mouth coming to play.

“As tempting as it might be to pin you up and store you in my closet with the other toxic specimen, why don’t you just try accepting that you’re not dead.”

Such a little stalker—she would enjoy keeping me forever in a glass case.

“You make me fucking crazy.” A heavy sigh shakes her shoulders. “Why are you still so set on hiding from me? Putting all these walls between us. Have I not shown that you can trust me with yourself?”

I run a hand through my hair, a cold laugh vibrating my shoulders. “You give yourself far too much credit. I’m not hiding from you.”

“You are!” She raises her voice, taking a dangerous step towards me. “Is it because you’re trying to protect me from the Imitator? He went after May, and now what? You’re afraid—”

I meet her halfway, looking down my nose at her as my breath fans across her face. Our feet are almost touching, and I can feel her warmth radiating off her body in waves.

The intoxicating smell of cherries does nothing to calm my anger.

Tension consumes the space between our bodies. I can feel every ounce of her bitterness towards me, can see it in the way her eyes crinkle in the corners as she glares up at me.

Unfearing. Unyielding.

“Do not”—I lift a singular finger, pointing it just in front of her nose—“insult me.”

If she wants to be candid with her words, I won’t be held responsible for how she walks away from this conversation.

“You’ve gotten far too comfortable, pet. Don’t make me remind you of where we stand.” I seethe, daring her to speak to me like that again.

A storm of unknown sensations boils in my veins. Where I’m normally cold, everything now burns. It itches in an unsufferable kind of way. Every word heats my skin to an unbearable temperature.

“Gods forbid you’re scared of losing someone.” She swats at my hand, hitting it out of her face, quiet fury rumbling beneath the surface of her skin. “Gods fucking forbid you actually give a shit about someone other than yourself!”

The urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she closes her mouth is becoming far more appealing by the second.

“This would be far less disappointing for you if you’d just accept that I’m not the man you made up in your fragile imagination.”

Her gaze turns molten, all of the fatigue from earlier forgotten. Wrath has woken her up, and it won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“Why won’t you let me in,” she snaps, not a question but a demand.

My nostrils flare, trying to get oxygen to my brain so I don’t do something we will both regret. I turn, ready to disappear into the four walls of my bedroom until she cools off, but she isn’t having it.

“No.” Her hands land against my shoulder, pushing me. “Tell me why you won’t let me in.”

Another shove with her small hands barely makes me budge. Her hair sways with the force, tears of pure rage pouring from her pretty green eyes.

My jaw pulses as I face her, feeling her palms dig into my chest.

“Why!” she exclaims. “What are you protecting me from, Thatcher? Just tell me!”