Page 57 of Undertow

My pulse picks up as I study her, trying to read more in her dangerous statement. “I’m not allowed to want anything,” I reply evenly.

Freedom.

Peace.

One ray of anything good.

Her eyes soften in a way I don’t expect. “Shaw…”

“Can we just get this over with? Go ahead and eat if you’re hungry. I’ll wait.”

“Will you stop acting like this? I get that you’re under pressure?—”

“Under pressure?”

“And I know you’re mad, but you’ll understand soon. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

Is she serious? She can actually sit there and say this crap to me? My blood pounds at her conciliatory bullshit. All of this.

“Let’s not talk,” I growl out. “Just eat so I can leave.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps. “What is your problem?”

“Myproblem?How about all of this?”

“All of what? This nice meal I’ve prepared for you? Wanting to be your friend?”

“Oh, we’refriendsnow? Is that what this is?”

“Oh my god! You know what your problem is? You think because you’re Daddy’s little errand boy now, you’re some entitled prince or something. Well, guess what, you’re not. You need to learn to suck it up and stop being a little bitch about everything!”

Furious, I shove up from the table, my chair slamming back against the tile floor.

Stalking toward her, I unbutton my shirt with sharp movements. Her eyes widen as I freeze in front of her and rip it off my body.

“Look at me, Scarlett,” I hiss.

I know even as the words come out that I’m screwing up. I’m reacting, showing emotion. My control has been slipping since I crossed the bridge to this haunted island. I’m not myself, haven’t been since… Julia. Since a piece of my soul flaked off and exposed itself to her.

Maybe the problem is youareyourself. You’re thawing, Shaw. You have to refreeze.

But right now I’m an inferno.

“Shaw, I?—”

“Look. At. Me!” I point to the three-inch scar by my collarbone. “From theincidentin New Orleans.” I twist to show the one on my side. “Chicago.” My neck. “Toronto.”

I’m shaking when I turn to expose my back and flinch at her gasp.

“Las Vegas.” My voice is as scratched and torn as the rest of me. We could do this all day. God, how many timeshaveI donethis all day? Day after day after day. My entire body, covered in scars hidden by art—or art hidden by scars. I don’t even know which is telling the true story now.

Neither, because the real mutilation is inside.

I scrub at my eyes, drawing in ragged breaths to regain control.

Get it together. You can’t do this with her. With anyone.

I’ve already messed up with this tiny display. It’s just… The lies. The hiding. Thepretending.

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