Walk Through Fire (Chaos, #4)(52)

“Babe, this place looks nice, but it’s not you.”

“It’s one hundred percent me,” I retorted, doing it wanting to kick myself because I should not engage. I should instead ask him to leave (again).

I knew this to be even more true when he took in the length of me again before catching my eyes.

“New you, that getup, this house,” he muttered. “Old you, I got my dick inside you.”

That did it, the dirty talk that was not all about dirty talk, the good kind that was sweet and fun and had one objective that was also sweet but mostly it was fun. Instead, it was dirty talk that was only partly the good kind but not intentionally so. Mostly it was meant to wound by taking more than it was giving and leaving bruises with the blows.

Therefore I stomped to the island, put my hands on it, and didn’t share I had a busy day and I needed to prepare for it because he’d proved yesterday he didn’t care about that, which was another indication he didn’t care, at all, about me.

Instead I stated, “I’m not doing this again. This is over, this game we’re playing. You need to leave. And I’m being serious, High.”

Humor lit his brown eyes when he returned, “You’re bein’ serious?”

I tried to tamp down my annoyance, something else that didn’t work, in fact, the effort only fanned the flames, and I replied, “Very.”

He lost none of his humor and actually looked more amused when he rejoined, “You’re cute when you’re very serious. ’Specially bein’ very serious in those jammies.”

I stared at him as panic hit me.

He was changing the game and the way he was changing it this time, teasing me like that, I knew I was going to lose.

And if I lost to that, I’d lose it all.

Again.

Oh yes.

Panic.

And staring into his playful eyes, that panic went extreme.

“Please leave,” I whispered.

He heard my tone, maybe read my panic, the amusement fled and he got serious and I knew it was deadly serious even though he didn’t move a muscle.

“What’s the gig with your pad, Millie?” he whispered back.

“It’s my home,” I answered, hoping an answer might get him moving on. “It’s how I like it. I worked hard on it. It’s perfect. Now, I answered you. Will you please go?”

“It’s not you,” he told me.

“It’s all me,” I told him.

“It’s not the you I know.”

“You knew me twenty years ago, Logan,” I reminded him. “Things have changed.”

“Yeah they have,” he readily agreed.

I leaned into my hands on the counter, my body tipping his way, my hope that he’d read that body language and see my sincerity.

“While we’re like this, not angry, not being stupid and crazy, I hope you’ll listen to me,” I began. “I need you to leave, Logan. I need it. This isn’t healthy. Not for either of us. We have to stop.”

“Crate’s gone,” he shared, and my head twitched in confusion when he did.

“Crate?” I asked.

“Photos of us,” he told me.

He’d searched my house.

Not a surprise.

Invasive and annoying but with no rules to this game, not a surprise.

“I took it out to the Dumpster,” I told him.

And I had in a moment of fury.

The garbage men didn’t come until the next day. I still had time to go out and drag it back in.

I was fighting the urge and hated the fact that part of me knew I’d lose that fight. But that crate totally would be back inside, tucked in my closet by day’s end no matter how busy I was.

“Crate’s gone,” he repeated, and when I started to say something, he went on, “Someone took it.”

I snapped my mouth shut against a pain that felt like someone had punched me in the throat.

“Rode around your house,” he told me. “Saw it yesterday afternoon by the Dumpster. It’s gone now.”

Oh God.

It was a nice crate. They didn’t cost a fortune but they also didn’t cost pennies.

And crates like that were useful for a variety of things.

I could see someone taking it. I hadn’t thought about it when I’d dragged it out there and set it beside the Dumpster, not too puny or lazy to throw it in, just knowing I’d never dig it out if I actually did that, so I’d set it by the side because I knew I was weak and I’d be back for it. Still, I was making a statement to myself even if I knew it was lame and I’d take it back.

“It’s gone?” I asked, my voice husky.

“Nice crate, you dumped it, someone can use it. They’ll do that and to do that, they’ll dump the pictures.”

Oh God, that hurt.

God, it killed.

Why had I taken it out to the Dumpster?

Why?

“Threw us away, Millie,” he told me conversationally, then took a sip of coffee, his gaze still on me. When he was done swallowing, he continued. “My count, this is twice.”

That blow was so true, it caved in my throat and I had to fight for breath.

I struggled past the pain, dragged in air, and begged, “Please don’t do this. Just let it go and then go. If not for me, for you, High. This isn’t healthy for either of us.”