Page 51 of The Devil's Trials

“No,” I snap as tears prick my eyes, only fueling the swirl of emotions in my chest. “You had to go and ruin everything. And you know what the worst part is? I can’t even hate you for it.” I swipe angrily at the tears that escape my eyes, thankful he can’t see them. See how easily I’m falling apart. “You saved my life and fucking ruined it in the same heartbeat.” I choke on the lump in my throat and grit my teeth against the pressure building in my chest. All I want to do is scream.

“This isn’t a conversation to have right now.”

I laugh too loudly. This isn’t a conversation we should have, period. I shouldn’t be talking to him at all. Realistically, I know that. But getting my head and my heart on the same page these days is…challenging.

“What conversation should we have right now?”

He sighs, though it doesn’t sound irritated exactly. Sad maybe? “What are you doing?”

I hum a pitchy tone, hugging the tequila bottle to my chest. “Making a new best friend. His name is Jose Cuervo.”

“Hmm. I have a feeling you’re not going to appreciate that particular friendship later on.”

“I’m not thinking about that,” I ramble, grabbing a throw pillow off the couch and lying on the floor, tucking it under my head.

“What are you thinking about?” he murmurs.

I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, then exhale a heavy sigh. “Too fucking much,your majesty.”

A giggle slips free, and I slap my hand to my forehead, making my head spin.

“I understand more than I’d like to.”

His subdued tone makes my chest ache, and I sniffle softly, whispering, “I miss you. That’s really what I’m thinking about—all the damn time. That, or how much Ishouldn’tbe missing you and all the reasons why.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “You’re right,” and fuck if that doesn’t feel like a dagger to the chest.

What was I expecting him to say? That he misses me too?

Don’t be so naive, I chide myself.

“I know that,” I bite back.

“You should go to sleep.”

“So you can invade my dream?” I shoot at him.

He exhales a soft laugh, but his tone isn’t joking when he says, “Because you sound tired.”

Anger bubbles in my chest, rising swiftly. “Careful now. Don’t want to make it seem like you give a shit about a weak little human.”

I sit up and immediately wish I hadn’t when the room starts spinning and bile coats my throat.

“I answered your call, didn’t I?”

I hate the way his words steal the breath from my lungs. I press my lips together, my pulse thrumming. Instead of fumbling through a response, I drag myself upright and shuffle through the apartment to my room, where I fall into bed.

The line is quiet as I pull the blankets around me, willing my stomach to settle as I stare at the swirling ceiling.

“I’ve never been so physically and emotionally exhausted and yet so wired I can’t sleep.”

“The tequila should help,” he remarks dryly, and I almost laugh at how normal our conversation feels right now.

I close my eyes, trying to convince my muscles to relax as I roll onto my side and hug a pillow to my chest. “Will you stay with me?”

“Do you remember what I said to you before we stormed Lucia’s compound two weeks ago?”

My breath hitches as I’m transported back to that day.

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