“Does the distinction really matter when I'm covered in someone else's blood?”
I glance down at my knuckles—split and raw, painted in red—and at the trail I left across her floor. Evidence of what I am. What I’ll become, again and again, if it means keeping her safe.
She watches me like she’s not sure if she wants to scream or kiss me.
And the worst part?
I’d take either.
She’s not mine. Not really. Not beyond these stolen moments.
But fuck if I don’t want to make herstay.
“Every drop on you? That’s what it looks like when Iprotectwhat’s mine.”
Her breath stutters.
“That’s not fair,” she whispers. “You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to make rational decisions.”
“Nothing about this situation is rational.” I step closer, close enough to catch the scent of her. “But that doesn't make it any less true.”
She turns away, her shoulders hunching slightly. “I don't know who I am anymore, Thor. I no longer recognize the woman I see in the mirror. I just watched a man die and I feel absolutely nothing. I slept with you, someone I barely know, and I feel absolutely everything. How am I supposed to trust my judgment right now?”
“Trust your instincts. The same instincts that got you away from Terrance in the first place. The same instincts that kept you alive this long. What are they telling you to do?”
Charlotte's fingers curl into fists at her sides. “My instincts are telling me to run. As far and as fast as possible.”
“From all of this.” She gestures between us. “From you, from the violence, from the way you make me feel.”
The admission hits me like a punch to the chest. She's not just running from Terrance—she's running from me. From us. From whatever this thing is that’s burning between us, wild and uncontrollable like a wildfire.
“Charlotte—”
“No.” She holds up a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “Let me finish. My instincts are screaming at me to run because every time I let someone in, every time I trust someone with my heart, I end up broken. Shattered. And I don't know if I can survive being broken again.”
Her words hang in the air between us, heavy with years of pain. I want to reach for her, to pull her against me and promise that I'll never hurt her the way Terrance did. But promises are cheap, and she's already been fed too many lies wrapped in pretty words.
“I'm not him.”
“I know. That's what terrifies me. Because if you were like him, this would be easy. I could hate you, fight you, run from you without looking back. But you're not like him, and that makes everything so much more complicated.”
I step closer, the distance between us electric with all the things we're not saying. “Complicated doesn't have to mean impossible.”
“Doesn't it?” Unshed tears threaten to fall down her beautiful face. “I watched you beat a man to death today. I heard things about my ex-husband that are worse than every nightmare I've ever had. And instead of being horrified, instead of running screaming into the night, I'm standing here wondering what it says about me that I still want you.”
My heart thunders against my ribs. Even now, with blood on my hands and a corpse in the basement, she wants me. The knowledge is intoxicating.
“It says you recognize the difference between violence for pleasure and violence for protection.”
“Is there a difference?” She challenges, chin lifting slightly. “Or do we just tell ourselves that to sleep at night?”
“Yes, there's a fucking difference.” I flex my damaged hand, welcoming the sharp pain that grounds me. “Terrance hurt you because he enjoyed it. Because it made him feel powerful. I killed Vincent because he threatened to take you back to that monster.”
“And that makes it okay?”
“No,” I admit. “Nothing about this situation is okay. But it's necessary. And sometimes necessary is all we get.”
I want to touch her, to wipe away the tears tracking down her cheeks, but my hands are still stained with Vincent's blood. Instead, I stand there like a fucking statue, watching her crumble.
