“You knew what you were doing,” I say, more to the walls than to her. “Planned it. Followed him for weeks—hell, maybe months. What was it? A setup? A message? Was it about me?”
My fingers twitch at my sides.
I hate this part. Always have. The waiting. The not knowing. I’m good at the rest—getting answers, making people talk. But this? This limbo of half-truths and half-broken girls who won’t meet your eyes.
It gets to me.
I cross the room again and crouch in front of her. There’s a bruise blooming along her cheekbone, a line of red near her eye. My hand rises before I think it through, fingertips brushing her chin to tilt her face up.
She jerks away. Not violent. Just enough to sayno more.
The movement shouldn’t feel like a slap—but it does.
I should’ve hit her harder.
Should’ve made her break.
Instead… I’m the one unraveling.
My jaw locks. “You don’t get to look away. Not when Ronan could’ve—” I cut myself off, my voice breaking on his name before I can finish.
She hears it too. Something flickers in her expression. Brief. A shadow of grief or regret. But it’s gone before I can pin it down.
I straighten, stepping back.
“Was Ronan the target?” I ask again, quieter this time. “Did you come here for him?”
Still nothing.
I can’t do this.
My hand comes up, palm open, and for a split second I mean to strike. Just enough to snap her out of it. Just enough to make her listen. But when it lands, it’s barely more than a touch—a backhand meant to punctuate, not punish. Her head turns with the motion, a loose strand of hair slipping across her cheek.
The second comes quicker. A little harder. Still restrained.
The third finally draws blood.
And that’s when it happens.
That’s when something inside me gives way.
Blood wells at the corner of her mouth, bright and sharp against her skin—and I stagger back like I’ve been shot. My stomach twists. My throat burns.
Because I’ve done worse. Far worse.
But never like this.
Never with someone who reminds me of her.
I press my hands to my face, fingers digging into my scalp, trying to force the guilt out of me. It doesn’t work.
She still hasn’t made a sound.
“You were supposed to talk,” I whisper. “That’s the deal. You take a few hits, you give me a name, and this ends. That’s how it works.”
But she doesn’t play by the rules.
Neither do I—not anymore.