𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊

𝟒𝟏 | 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒

𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 the center of the room for a few lengthy seconds, replaying Aeron's words over and over in my head like a scratchy record, before I snap out of it and realize the direness of the situation. I lunge over to my bureau and I rip it open, seizing a t-shirt and some shorts. I step into them and then I race out of my room.

It takes me less than three minutes to make it from the threshold of my room to the ajar front doors. The wind smacks the oak open and closed, and I fight to get through them, seeing the light of my life at the edge of the driveway.

Rain pelts my hair and drags down my face in rivers as I step into the thickness of the storm. Shivers run down my spine from the coldness of the droplets, but I can't focus on the temperature of them when the heat of everything I've ever stood for is right in front of me.

My driver is at the edge of the property, situated in a Maybach, always equipped for departure at the sound of my command, and for the first time, I curse myself for being readily prepared.

Aeron's white hair is a stringy blanket in front of my eyes as my steps pound closer and closer to her, as I reach my hand out further and further to grab onto her upper arm and demand an answer from her—a real one.

The ring—our ring—is still in my grasp when I make it a foot from the car.

"Take me to the nearest airport," I hear Aeron yell at my driver as she flings both of her suitcases into the backseat, not bothering with the trunk.

"Miss—" he sputters, and then looks above her shoulder to me, "Sir, what should I do?"

"You stay put," my voice is a demand, a powerful one.

Aeron freezes in place at the sound of me, and I know it's not from the coolness of the rain standing between our bodies. My breath comes out in puffs of air in front of my face as I give her a foot of distance and nothing more.

"Let me go, Beau," she says quietly, not facing me.

"Not a chance in hell," I huff, "I just fucking got you back."

"I'm not yours. I was never yours," she glares over the cusp of her shoulder.

"You're a liar," I take a step forward, "Why are you doing this?"

I steel myself for whatever Aeron might throw at me as she finally does me the honor of turning around and facing me. Water drips off the tip of her nose and rounds the perfect pinkness of her bottom lip, but I can't focus on her beauty, on her appearance, on anything other than the disgusted look she's shooting in my direction. 

I get a sense of weakness, a true, gutting, decaying feeling that sinks deep into my stomach and settles there like curdled milk as her eyes show nothing more than vengeance and ire. I hate that I am the object of her distrust. I hate that I have done the same thing to wrong her again. I hate that we're two souls standing not one foot apart, yet materialize on opposite sides of a war.