Chapter Forty-Six
I caught her .
Her arms wrapped around my neck, her legs went around my waist, and she groaned.
It wasn’t sexual. It was guttural.
I held her.
Maybe she held me.
It didn’t matter. Until she spoke.
“I’m sorry.” Her tears hit my neck, but her broken voice dripped with the taste of anger and something I never wanted to hear from her. “I’m so fucking sorry, Preston. No child, none , should ever have to go through that.” She gripped the sides of my face and pulled back to look at me. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me.” More tears ran down her face.
I realized my mistake too late.
I’d calculated the purpose of telling her. I’d run through every possible scenario. I’d worked and reworked until I had the correct sentences. Few words, not too many details, enough information. That was sharing—dissemination of events that made a person. I would give her mine. She would listen. The plan would work.
But it didn’t.
I’d neglected to gauge the single factor that could destroy my design before I could breathe life in to it.
Her sympathy.
Scale-tipping, unwanted, contemptible sympathy.
“Thank you for trusting me,” she whispered, annihilating everything.
I removed her hands from my face and pushed her legs down.
Her feet hit the floor as confusion twisted her face. “Hey.” She reached for my face again. “I didn’t—”
“Goodbye.” Sympathy left no room for control. It was three strides to the door. I took the first.
“ Wait .”
I was done waiting. She pitied my past. I would never own her. Not now.
“Preston,” she warned.
Wild hair, wild eyes—I was a fool for not seeing it before. The raw edges, the unfiltered honesty, the animalistic determination for survival. She was wild. I was control. This was never going to work.