Why is it so hard to meet his gaze? “I should probably go thank Gregor for?—”
“Mates can’t be apart for long,” he says quietly, still watching me intently. “That was the last thing I said to you. Do you remember what you said to me?”
I do.
We argued at Joy and Emilio’s party. I accused him of being unable to apologize. How could I believe he would never hurt me again if he couldn’t even say out loud what he’d done to me?
I left the party and sat by the creek in the late evening, chatted with Jasper, the new prospect, for a bit, then Cristofer shot me and abducted me.
So much happened that night, but I will never forget walking away from him and the pain of knowing I was leaving him. That he would never apologize for nearly killing me when he thought I was a feral, and I would never see him again.
I start to mention the argument, and I can’t do that to myself again.
Not anymore.
I have pushed and pushed andpushedfor him to apologize for hurting me, and he can’t.
I’m tired of rehashing the same argument.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
But itdoesmatter. It matters way more than I should let it.
He sits forward in his seat. “Then I die. Or you die. I don’t care. That’s what you said to me. The last thing you said to me.”
His gaze is so intense that I hunt for the words I want to say, but I can’t think. Maybe I don’t want to.
The mood in the room has been building up to something ever since I opened my eyes. But I felt the tension, even though I tried to ignore it.
I can’t ignore it anymore.
I just got away from a shifter who wanted to bite me and tie us together. I don’t know where this conversation is going, but I can guess.
“You were going to leave me.” I didn’t expect bleakness from the Wolf King. I didn’t think he even knew what it was. But that’s the look in his eyes, and I hurt when he hurts.
I turn away, wrapping a sheet around myself as I swing my legs out of bed, and I’m only slightly dizzy when I stand. “We need to go after Cristofer. He wouldn’t have gone far.” When I can’t find my clothes, I give up looking for them.
And I turn to walk away, though it feels an awful lot like I’m looking for an excuse to hide in the bathroom.
I slam to a stop.
Aren isn’t sitting on a wooden chair facing my bed any longer.
The man who said he would never get on his knees for anyone is on his knees in front of me.
My fingers tighten in the soft fabric of my sheet, and I back up, my thighs bumping the side of the bed.
My voice is too loud when I demand, “What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done long before now.” He takes my right hand. “I have hurt you in ways that I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Kat.”
“Get up,” I hiss at him, darting a rapid glance at the closed bedroom door, wishing someone—anyone—would barge in and interrupt us.
This is what I wanted, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do now that he’s on his knees in front of me. It’s not nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be when I told him he would have to beg for my forgiveness.
“Forgive me.”
“You don’t mean it,” I snap. “You’re only saying this out of misguided pity, responsibility, or..." I angrily wipe tears from my eyes, hating that I’m crying when I should be laughing in Aren’s face now that I have him on his knees begging. “You don’tmeanit.”
