And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.
“It fits.” I lower the ice pack and sweep my eyes down her body. She got dressed up so pretty for me tonight, and there was a moment there before leaving, where Rath’s words seemed true. She looked so excited. Sighing, I mirror her pose, propping my shoulders up against my bedroom door. “I’m sorry it ended like that. I wanted us to have a good time tonight, not get caught up in an attempted murder.”
Her bounce of laughter is more genuine than I’d expect. “I don’t know. It seemed pretty on-brand for us, don’t you think? Dress up, get an award, fight to the death.” Her smile falters, eyes dropping. “It’s probably the gods telling us something.”
“Yeah, like don’t fuck your sister.”
She blinks at the harshness of it—the truth. We can joke all we want, but the two of us together? Nothing good has ever come of it. Even when I try. Even when I go out of my way. No matter what I do, no matter how much we sugarcoat it, we’ll never be anything to one another but toxic.
Which is exactly why I say, “Good night, Story.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, and if I were a more selfish person, I’d see the flash of disappointment in her eyes as proof that I’m wrong. “Night,” she says, reaching back to curl her fingers around the knob of that fucking door.
I watch it close behind her, clicking softly in the silence of the hallway.
But I can’t make myself move.
I’ve memorized the door in front of me, night after night, mapping out every grain of wood, knowing that she’s behind it, if I could only get through. I know it’s not right, this sick obsession I have, but I can’t shake it, because it’s not just about the sex. It’s not even about needing to watch over her.
It’s that look she had in her eyes tonight after I gave her those flowers. That shy, pleased, surprised thing that made her shine. It’s that she wants me back, and for once, she’s not afraid to show it. It’s about her and tonight, and even if it’s toxic and fucked up, it’s about making sure she knows.
What she means to me.
I lurch forward, banging my bruised fist on the wood.
The door opens a moment later, the hinges whining softly. She’s still in the dress, but the torn stockings are gone. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, and she looks at me with this startled, expectant expression.
But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
Her forehead creases. “Killian?”
“Tonight turned out wrong,” I burst, impatient to get the words out. “Not just the shit with Cartwright, but… it didn’t go like I planned.”
Her expressions smoothes, blanking out. “I know you didn’t want to go. But we needed an alibi while the guys broke into Daniel’s office, and—”
I shift my weight, huffing. “No. It’s not that I didn’t want to go. It’s just that my life is a fucking mess, with quitting football and my dad being so—”
“Jesus, Killian, look at me.” She spreads her arms out, but they instantly fall, hanging limply at her sides. “I know a thing or two about messy lives.”
“That’s fair,” I sigh, reaching up to push my hair back. “But when we decided to go, I thought it could be my chance to… well, you know,” I stumble over my words, which is something I’m not used to. I either have something to say or I don’t. Taking a breath, I try to calm the kinetic squirm happening in my chest. “I wanted it to be something special. I wanted to show up with you on my arm looking sexy and hot, and—like you were mine.”
Her eyes search mine, frown deepening. “It was special. You won that award, and I might not totally get the football thing, but I’m… proud of you for—”
“Fuck! Story! Just listen!” I fist at my hair, knuckles stinging with the force. ”I invited you because you’re my girl, and I want…I need the whole goddamn world to know. I just…” My exhale sputters out, and I hate it. I hate this fucking ineffectual blathering. “I don’t know how to do all the romance stuff Rath and Tris do. I can’t take you to balls, or write you a song, or bring you tea and tampons when you’re on your rag.” She raises her eyebrow and I glare back. “Christ, you know what I mean. I forced you on your knees. I took your virginity. I shoved a tracker in your neck. I marked my initial in your chest. I gave you a fucking gun for Christmas.” Put like that—yeah. I really am hopeless. I shake my head, muttering, “A gun. Jesus Christ.”