His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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NOAH
Hard to look at. My face.
It hurts like hell, like it's going to tear me apart from the inside. "You've never been hard to look at, Cam."
She drives the axe into the chopping block, leaving it there, and turns around slowly. Her eyes meet mine, fierce, unyielding. Her jaw is tight, muscles tensed.
I let my gaze brush over her face, trying to hold steady, but I can't. I see the tears glistening in her eyes, the defiance in the way she stands, the crook of her nose.
Her nose. It came from him. That fucker that hurt her. That fucker who thought he could break her.
Fuck.
Her face is set, daring me to look away. Daring me to say something stupid. Daring me to leave.
I take a step closer. She doesn't move. Doesn't flinch.
"Cam—"
"Don't you dare apologize to me. You don't get to feel sorry for me."
I swallow hard, my throat dry and tight. "I just—"
"You just what?" she interrupts, her grip on the axe tightening. "You just want to fix it? Make it all better?"
She's right. God, she's right. I can't fix it, but I want to. I want to so fucking badly.
"Okay," I whisper, my voice barely holding together. "John told me... about Elijah. About your mom. About the bridge. About you...You...."
"Dying? And what did that do for you? Make you feel better? Make you understand? Or are you standing there," she lifts the axe and points it at me, "looking at me like I'm still that scrawny kid whose heart gave out in the cold water?"
"It made me feel sick," I grit out. "And fucking angry. Like I want to tear the whole goddamn world apart."
She studies me for a moment, her dark, beautiful eyes searching mine. The icy air whips through her hair, tosses the dark curls around her shoulders. I don't know what she's looking for, but I hope she finds it. I hope she sees something in me worth holding onto.
The wind picks up again, biting against my cheeks and lips, but I don't move. I wait. I wait for her to say something, anything.
"You can't feel it for me," she says finally, her voice breaking. "No one can. It's mine."
"But I can be here," I insist, my voice firm. "I can be here, right beside—"
"I don't want you to be!" she bursts, tossing the axe to the ground. It hits the snow with a muffled thud, sinking into the white powder. "You still don't get it. I hid everything because I'm selfish and I wanted to keep you. You still don't get it." Her voice cracks. The snow flurries around us, tiny shards of ice stinging skin. "But you'll leave. You'll leave and you should leave."
