“Oh, because you’re the best at it?” Fresh tears cascade down her cheeks, and I wish I could take them away, but if I touch her, she’ll hit my hand or push me, and I’ll turn into an unhinged animal.
So I tap my finger against my thigh, summoning patience I don’t have. “So what if I’m the best at it? That should be a compliment.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Her voice raises. “You’re not even offering excuses for what you said. Instead, you’re pulling a classic you move by projecting the blame onto someone else. That someone is now dead and reached that point thanks to you.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“You might as well have had!” Her whole body shakes with the force of her words. “Do you not see how much your words could be cutting to someone in a depressive, suicidal state?”
“He was neither depressive nor suicidal. That slimy fuck might have fooled you, but he’d never be able to fool me.”
Her lips tremble. “You’ll never change, will you? Instead of admitting it, you’re deflecting the blame.”
“Instead of being rational, you’re being fucking emotional, Glyndon.”
“Sorry for not being a robot like you!”
“Watch it,” I grit out. “It might not look like it but I’m pissed the fuck off right now, and I’m holding myself back.Barely. So quit pushing me. I mean it.”
Her shoulders hunch as her chin quivers and her hands ball into fists. “I want to go home. To London.”
“How were you planning to do that? By running all the way? You didn’t even take your fucking passport or bag.”
She purses her lips. “I can call Grandpa.”
“Before or after someone attacks you in the middle of the night? You don’t even know the States or New York. What, and I can’t stress this enough,the fuckis going on in your head?”
“I want to get away from you.” The deadpan in her voice scratches on my sanity. “Just leave me alone.”
“No can do. Get in the car.”
“No.”
“You can either go nicely or not so nicely.”
“I don’t want to see your face right now, Killian,” she murmurs and hits her chest. “It hurts. Right here. And if you keep forcing me, I’ll throw myself from the car.”
The tapping of my fingers turns up in intensity, but I stop myself from throwing her over my shoulder.
I told her I’d never let her have those suicidal thoughts again, but in this instant, I’m triggering them.
And while this could be the anger talking, I don’t want to see her act on those emotions.
Not now. Not ever.
“Get in the car,” I repeat with enough tension to detonate a country.
“I said—”
“I know what you fucking said. I’ll drive you to the private jet and instruct the pilot to take you back to London.”
“You…really will let me go back alone?”
“I don’t want to, but I will.”
Because for the first time, I hate the way she’s looking at me. It’s not fear nor is it annoyance or defiance.
It’s disgust mixed with anger.