Chapter 45 #2
My stomach flips. I tighten my grip on the book like I can anchor myself with paper and ink.
“What happened to you?”
Lorenzo’s mouth curves into a smile that is all teeth and darkness. “Now that’s a story for a different day.”
“I don’t want to hear any of it,” I fire back. “All that matters is that you’re not the boy who used to—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, voice sharp as glass. His fingers lift again, hovering near my jaw, then curling into a fist at the last second like he’s strangling the impulse. “Don’t talk about him. He was weak.”
My breath stutters.
He takes a step back, just barely, giving me air again.
“Have you read it recently?” he asks, voice low.
I blink, thrown by the reversal. “Yes.”
His eyes flick up. “How recently?”
My mouth twists. “Once a year.”
He leans back against the shelf behind him, one shoulder resting against the wood as if he belongs there. “At least you have insight into why you’re here.”
My pulse spikes, but I force my voice steady. “I don’t need to read a book to know that you brought me here to punish me.”
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “That’s what you think this is?”
“What else would it be?” I whisper, my throat tight, my hands shaking.
His eyes hold mine, and something in them looks almost tired. His obsession costs him a part of himself.
“You were never a phase . . .” My breath catches. His gaze doesn’t waver.
The room tilts.
For a second, my brain goes silent.
No anger. No sarcasm. No clever retort. Just the raw weight of that sentence, crushing and intimate and awful. I don’t know how to hold it.
I don’t know how to survive it.
My fingers loosen slightly on the book, and my throat hurts from the emotions I’m choking on. “That’s not—”
“It is.” His voice is rougher now, like the honesty scraped his throat on the way out. “You don’t get to rewrite it into something smaller so you can stomach it.”
My chest burns, and I want to sob. “I didn’t know.”
His mouth curves, but it isn’t humor. It’s pain wearing a smile. “Does it change anything?”
I swallow hard. “Why would you—why would you do all of this over—over a summer?”
His eyes flash, and for a moment, the monster returns, furious and sharp.
“A summer,” he repeats, voice dropping. “That’s what you call it?”
I flinch.
He sees it and exhales, long and controlled, as if he’s forcing himself not to snap.
“You were the only part of my life that ever felt like I wasn’t drowning.” His voice comes out quieter, almost raw. “And then you vanished. And I had to learn how to breathe underwater.”
My chest aches so sharply it makes me dizzy.
I hate it.
I hate that some part of me wants to reach for him, to fix it, to undo it.
I hate that I can’t because I’m still angry. Still trapped. Still wearing his ring like a brand.
My voice comes out brittle. “So you decided to drown me too.”
“I decided you don’t get to walk away clean.”
I choke on a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “You’re—” I swallow. “You’re insane.”
His smile returns, slow and wicked. “Yes.”
“And what am I supposed to do with that? With . . . whatever this is?”
“I guess you can read.” He shrugs. “Learn how stories like ours end.”
I lift my chin, forcing steel back into my voice even as my heart trembles like a traitor.
“And if I don’t like the ending?”
Lorenzo’s eyes glitter. “Then change it. But don’t pretend you can escape it.”
The air between us hums.
We’re so close now, I can feel the heat off his body. So close that if I lifted onto my tiptoes, our lips could touch . . .
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
He steps back suddenly like he’s pulled away from something that might burn him.
His voice turns sharper, more controlled. “Put it back.”
I blink.
“Put the book back where you found it.”
My anger flares again, grateful for something easier to hold than sadness.
“You’re telling me what to do with a book now?” I snap.
His mouth curves. “I’m telling you what to do with my things.”
I lift the book slightly. “What, afraid I’ll steal it?”
His eyes flash. “Afraid you’ll bleed on it.”
The sentence hits wrong—too intimate, too knowing.
I freeze.
Lorenzo holds my gaze for a beat, then turns away like he’s done with this moment.
He walks toward the door, hand on the handle, shoulders tight.
Pausing, he turns his head slightly, not looking at me, but not leaving either. “Don’t make me regret letting you into this room.”
He exits, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that feels like a lock.
I stand there alone, book trembling in my hands, heart pounding so hard it aches.
The library feels different now.
Not safe.
Not neutral.
Because he stood here and let something human slip out, and now I’m holding the evidence like it’s going to burn through my skin.
I shove the book back onto the shelf too hard, the spine thudding against the wood.
Then I press my palm to the shelf and breathe, slow and shaky, trying to find my footing again.
Because if Lorenzo Amante is right—
If I was never a phase for him . . .
Then what does that make me?
The prize?
A punishment?
Something else entirely?