ed.”
“You are everything I need.
“Just seeing you with her . . .” My voice trails off.
“Why do you do this to me? This is not about you,
Ana. It’s about her.” He takes a sharp breath, running his
hand through his hair again. “At the moment she’s a very
sick girl.”
“But I felt it . . . what you had together.”
“What? No.” He reaches for me, and I step back
instinctively. He drops his hand, blinking at me. He looks
as though he’s seized with panic.
“You’re running?” he whispers as his eyes widen with
fear.
I say nothing as I try to collect my scattered thoughts.
“You can’t,” he pleads.
“Christian . . . I—” I struggle to collect my thoughts.
What am I trying to say? I need time, time to process this.
Give me time.
“No. No!” he says.
“I . . .”
“I . . .”
He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For
divine intervention? I don’t know.
“You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”
“I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—”
“No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both
hands on his head.
“Christian . . .”
“No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and
suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head
bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He
takes a deep breath and doesn’t move.
What? “Christian, what are you doing?”
He continues to stare down, not looking at me.
“Christian! What are you doing?” My voice is highpitched.
He doesn’t move. “Christian, look at me!” I
command in panic.
His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards
me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost
serene . . . expectant.