Page 88 of Myla: The Hawthornes

His head jerked back in surprise.

The absolute hell of it was that I didn’t want freaking boundaries. I wanted zero boundaries. I wanted nothing between us. Ever. But he wasn’t going to give me that, and it had become very clear to me that I was giving him everything he needed and wasn’t getting anythingIneeded.

As he reached up to run a hand over his face, it took everything I had not to step forward and wrap my arms around his waist. He was grieving and he was stressed out to the point of collapse, and I knew he had more on his plate than anyone deserved to have. It hadn’t been my intention to add to that.

“Let me get this straight,” he said with a huff of sardonic laughter. “You’ve been all over me for years—hands in my hair, sittin’ in my lap, holdin’ my hand, hangin’ all over me, and sleepin’ in my goddamn bed—but now, rightnow, you’re tellin’ me I can’t touch you?”

“Cian—”

“Yeah, that tracks,” he said, letting out a little chuckle again as he put both hands behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. “That fuckin’ tracks.”

“I just think it would be better,” I replied, my voice cracking a little at the end. “For both of us if we just took the whole will-we-or-won’t-we off the table, you know?”

“Course you do, Myla,” he said tiredly, tipping his head back down to look at me.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s always all about you. The world revolves around Myla.”

“That’s a shitty thing to say.”

“Not your fault. Probably the way you were raised,” he said, shaking his head. “Brothers wrapped around your finger. Parents lettin’ you do whatever the fuck you wanted, talkin’ to them however the fuck you wanted.”

“Leave my family out of this. You’re being a dick,” I ground out.

“I’mbein’ a dick?” he asked in disbelief.

“All I wanted was to keep our hands to ourselves.”

“Yeah, you got it.” He raised his hands in surrender and took a step back.

“I don’t even understand why you’re pissed,” I snapped defensively. “We’re still friends! We’re still us! Nothing has to change, really, except—”

“I came over here for a little comfort,” he said quietly. “Spent the week up to my neck in problems, countin’ down the minutes until I could see you. I’ve been fuckin’ dyin’ for you, hopin’ you’d show up at the garage or the property just so I could get a fuckin’ fix. Finally, I can squeeze out a little time, Bas is at the property so I know it’s all good there, and I can come here—and you’re like this.”

“Baby,” I murmured, taking a step toward him. I shouldn’t have said it. The word just slipped out.

“No, you don’t get to do that shit,” he said, taking another step backward.

“You don’t get to be pissed at me,” I shot back. “I get to decide if I want to be touched. End of story.”

“Of course you fuckin’ do,” he replied. “Always.”

“Then why are you acting like this?”

“Me?” His eyes widened in disbelief. “You don’t want me to touch you? Fuckin’ bullshit and we both know it, but all right. I won’t touch you.”

“Fine.”

“Great,” he muttered stiffly.

“You’re still pissed.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“Because it’s not about me touchin’ you,” he roared. “It’s about fuckin’ control. You wanna control whatever this is, so you’re doin’ it. I didn’t make it over here when I got back into town, and now you’re pissed and throwin’ your fuckin’ weight around, like you always do. And I just have to fuckin’ take it because what the hell else am I gonna do?”

“I’ve never controlled any of this!” I shouted back.

“That right?” We were both yelling now. “How many times have you frozen me out because you were pissed, Myla? I say the wrong thing, and you cut contact. You come back around, and I fuckin’ let you, fuckin’ gaggin’ for it every goddamn time!”

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