between us has changed
sub一tly. It’s no longer light.
Okay, well . . . two can play that game. Let’s just
bring this back to you, Fifty. Trying to sound nonchalant,
wanting to assuage my burning curiosity but dreading the
answer, I ask, “So what did you do with Leila in the
apartment?”
I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of
I glance up at him, and he freezes with his forkful of
macaroni suspended in midair. Oh no, that’s not good.
“You really want to know?”
A knot tightens in my gut and my appetite vanishes.
“Yes,” I whisper. Do you? Do you really? My
subconscious has thrown her empty bottle of gin on the
floor and is sitting up in her armchair, glaring at me in
horror.
Christian’s mouth flattens into a line, and he hesitates.
“We talked, and I ga一ve her a bath.” His voice is hoarse,
and he continues quickly when I make no response. “And
I dressed her in some of your clothes. I hope you don’t
mind. But she was filthy.”
Holy fuck. He bathed her?
What an inappropriate thing to do. I’m reeling, staring
down at my uneaten macaroni. The sight of it now makes
me nauseous.
Try to rationalize this, my subconscious coaches. That
cool, intellectual part of my brain knows that he just did
that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile
that because she was dirty, but it’s too hard. My fragile
jealous self can’t bear it.
Suddenly I want to cry—not succumb to ladylike tears
that trickle decorously down my cheeks, but howling at the
moon crying. I take a deep breath to suppress the urge,
but my throat is arid and uncomfortable from my unshed
tears and sobs.
“It was all I could do, Ana,” he says softly.
“You still ha一ve feelings for her?”
“No!” he says, appalled, and closes his eyes, his
expression one of anguish. I turn away, staring once more
at my nauseating food. I can’t bear to look at him.
“To see her like that—so different, so broken. I care
about her, one human being to another.” He shrugs as if to
shake off an unpleasant memory. Jeez, is he expec
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