Page 38 of Before Broken Vows
My jaw locks.
He.
Fucking he.
I step back from the door, my whole body stiff.
My palms itch. My chest feels like it's been split open, but there's nothing bleeding out. Just smoke. Just rot. Just her voice in my head sayingI love you, and not to me.
That's what I get for trying. For almost letting myself believe we could have something again. That whatever fire we had wasn'tdead and cold. That her coming back meant anything more than manipulation.
Goddamn it, Theo.
You're a fool.
She came here for my protection, not because she wanted me. Not because she regretted leaving. She probably just wants money or something petty. Maybe she was always just using me.
She has a fucking life without me, a life she's eager to return to.
I take some deep breaths, my blood rushing in my ears.
What the fuck did I expect? That she'd spent all this time pining for me? That she'd been alone, thinking of me, regretting her choice?
No. She's been busy building a life. A home. With someone who gets to hear her voice every day. Who gets to touch her. Who gets to keep her.
I want to kick the door in. I want to snatch the phone from her hand and demand to know who's on the other end. I want to see her face when she realizes I know.
My hands curl into fists. The familiar sting of rage rises in me, the kind I usually reserve for men who've betrayed me, men whose eyes turn black when I'm done with them.
I take one step toward the door, then stop.
What would I do if I went in there right now? In this state? With this much fury coursing through me?
I'm not safe. Not for her. Not for myself.
I back away, turn, and walk down the hall. My chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself.
She played me. Again.
Same fucking pattern. Same old Theo.
Made me think she needed me. Made me remember what it was like to have her close. Made me feel like I mattered.
And the whole time, she was just waiting to go back to whoever the fuck is on the other end of that call.
My instincts were right: you don't get a second chance with the girl who has the ability to shatter your world.
I make it to my study and slam the door behind me. I grab the first thing my hand touches—a crystal glass—and go to hurl it across the room but stop myself. It was my mother's.
"Fuck!" I roar, the word tearing from my throat.
I pour myself a heavy pour of whiskey and down it. Then again and down that one, too.
I sit on the leather sofa and sink into it, my head in my hands.
Is this real?
Or am I just part of her game?
