Page 6 of Sacrifice
"It's not?—"
"Every time you look at me, you remember." I move closer, backing her against the bar. "Remember how you begged. How you scratched my back bloody. How you?—"
"Stop." Her voice cracks. "Just stop."
But I can't. Won't.
The whiskey and the dress and the fucking flowers in her hair have finally broken through my control.
"You think that kid could make you scream like I did?" I ask, voice rough. "Think he'd know exactly how you like to be touched? How you need it rough before you can let go?"
"Emil." It's barely a whisper.
"I've tried," I tell her, hands braced on the bar on either side of her, caging her in. "Tried to give you space. To let you pretend. But watching you with him..."
"You don't want me," she says, but it sounds like she's trying to convince herself. "You just don't want anyone else to have me."
"Wrong." I lean in close enough to feel her breath on my face. "I want you so fucking bad it's eating me alive. Want you in my bed, my life, wearing my name. But you keep running."
"Because it can't work!"
"Why?"
"Because you're you!" She pushes at my chest again. "Controlled, cold, calculating Emil, who plans everything down to the last detail. And I'm chaos. I'm messy and emotional, and I don't follow orders."
"You think I don't know that?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You think I don't lie awake cataloging all the ways you drive me insane? But it doesn't matter. Because you're also brave and beautiful and you make me feel shit I thought I'd buried in Afghanistan."
She's looking at me like she's never seen me before. "Emil..."
"I'm done," I tell her. "Done watching you date idiots who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you. Done pretending I don't want to kill every man who touches you. Done acting like that night didn't change everything."
The reception spins on around us—music, laughter, joy.
But in our bubble against the bar, there's only truth and want and the inevitable collapse of our resistance.
"One more drink," she says suddenly. "I need one more drink."
I step back, giving her space to breathe.
To run if she needs to.
But she doesn't run.
She signals the bartender, orders two shots of whiskey.
"To bad decisions," she says, handing me one.
"To inevitability," I counter.
We drink.
The burn is familiar, grounding.
But not enough to stop what's coming.
"I'm leaving," she announces, setting down her empty glass. "This was... I can't do this."
She turns to go, and my control finally, completely snaps.
