Page 124 of A Temporary Forever

I storm away, following Celeste’s footsteps. I yank the curtain to the side and emerge in a hallway. I rush after her, calling her name.

She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look at me.

Until she does.

And my heart stops and restarts in that moment.

Pausing in front of a door, she looks at me and I halt. Our gazes collide, tears pooling in her eyes.

The pain in her expression burns through me with a vengeance. I feel her suffering in my veins, deep in my bone marrow.

The oxygen doesn’t hit my lungs. Something is really wrong. And while I don’t know what it is, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I caused it. And the reasons, the logic, the explanation of my actions, are unimportant.

What matters is that she’s hurt. And I want to burn the world to take that hurt away.

Celeste pushes the door open and disappears.

My shoes slap against the concrete, the sound almost obscene in the silent building. One leg forward.I scared her.The other one.I hurt her.Another step.

I scared her.

I hurt her.

My footsteps chant in my head, and it feels like a lifetime before I reach her door. I knock.

Nothing.

Leaning my forehead against the wooden surface, I stop myself from barging in, because something tells me I need to let her be in charge here.

But fuck, I want to break the fucking door down and demand answers.

Claim my right to console her.

Absorb her pain.

“Celeste.” I knock again, and almost fall forward when she yanks the door open.

Stumbling at the threshold, I find purchase against the doorframe with my arm.

The tears are gone as she stands there in her comfortable wrap dress, the one she usually wears at her practice. Fuck, she’s beautiful.

And clearly whatever her initial reaction was, she’s found her composure. Now, she glares at me with venom.

It shouldn’t, but it still gives me hope. Combative Celeste is one I know well. One I can handle. But there is no way I’m letting her wear that mask without explaining what hurt her earlier.

She doesn’t invite me in, but she isn’t blocking the entrance either. I glance over her shoulder. There is a mirror, a vanity, and a rack full of clothes. It’s her changing room.

“You own this theater?” She puts her hands on her hips.

Shit, I forgot I blurted that out earlier. The thought of that asshole choreographer sends another jolt of ragethrough my veins, but I rein it in, forcing myself to focus on what matters.

“That’s irrelevant.” I push past her, knowing I might push her too far, too fast. But fuck, I’m not sitting on the sidelines.

“I don’t need you saving me.” She bangs the door closed.

I take that as a win. If she’s willing to be with me in a close, confined space, she’s willing to talk. Or at least to listen.

“He was touching you,” I growl. Not the best opening, but a relevant one nevertheless.

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