Like I’m a ghost. Like he can’t see me.
Or doesn’t want to.
“Hey!” I yell at his back, the panic turning to rage. “Don’t ignore me, Benedict.”
He stops and stiffens but doesn’t turn around. “You shouldn’t be here, Evelyn.”
His words send chills down my spine.
“Why?” I’m panting, and I can’t seem to catch my breath. “Why are you ignoring me? Look at me,” I demand.
“Go home. Now.” He stalks away without turning around, and rage fills my throat, my chest, my skin. I am burning with anger and I don’t know why.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I breathe, my nostrils flaring.
He stops again and turns around. His lips are pressed thin, and his knuckles are white at his sides. I’m not the only one who’s angry, it seems.
“I am not telling you. I amorderingyou to go.”
“Do you really want to order me around like your father?” I snap, shaking. I know it’s a cheap shot—thecheapestof shots. But I am burning, and I want him to feel it. And I know I’ll get a reaction with those words.
He narrows his eyes, his arms still at his side. His stance is firm, commanding. I see the rage pass across his face. I don’t understand why we’re fighting, but it feels good.
“Just go. You do not belong here.” He turns to walk away, and I lose it.
I make a guttural sound before running after him and push my palms against him—my hands on his back. I want tohurthim. He’s so solid that nothing happens, and I ricochet backwards, which only angers me more. Screaming, I rush forward again. This time, he turns and catches me, his hands grabbing my wrists and holding them against his chest as I try to attempt to beat him to a pulp. I amso angry.And it scares me because I don’t know why. Or do I? He doesn’t say or do anything. He holds me firmly as I attempt to pound my hands against him. My breathing is ragged and suddenly my screams turn feral. I don’t realize that I’m crying until tears begin to run down my face. I slow my fight and fall against him in defeat, my body shaking.
“I need you to go home,” he murmurs gently, pushing me away. “Hayes will arrange a ride home for you and your friend.”
He walks away, speaking into his phone briefly. He pushes one of the doors open and walks out of the room without looking back. I stare at the wooden door frame for what feels like hours, still shaking. Still crying. Still reeling. Another door opens and Zoey runs in.
“Oh my god, where the hell did you go? I thought you were kidnappedagain... Jesus Christ on a cracker, Evelyn. Are you okay?”
Hayes follows closely behind her. “I need you both to come with me,” he says, ushering us both of out the back room. The three of us exit the theater, and Hayes packs us into a large, black SUV. I briefly register that our coats and bags are on the seat next to us. Hayes glances at Zoey for a second before closing the door.
We’re both quiet for a few minutes, masks dangling from our hands as the car winds through the old, narrow streets of London. We’ve both taken the cloaks off.
“So, do you want to explain why you ran off?”
I whip my head to face her. “No. Not really.”
She blows out a whoosh of air. “We’re never going back, right?”
I nod, though I already know I’m lying. “Right.”
I blow my nose a few times and I don’t say anything else to Zoey. Instead, I curl up against the side of the car, wondering why I reacted like that. I feel like a feral animal. The bewilderment at seeing Benedict? Sure, I could justify that. But the anger?
I sit up straighter.
I was angry that he walked away from me tonight, that was a given.
But I was also angry that he disappeared three years ago.
I just never realized it until tonight. Until I watched him walk away from me, as if I meant nothing.
As if I mean nothing to him at all.
Only Her
