Page 16 of Sacrifice
"You don't know me."
"I know you're wearing the dress you bought last month at that little shop on Park Avenue. I know you hate your salmon because you ordered it to seem sophisticated when you really wanted the burger. I know you've been pressing your thighs together since I walked in because you're wet and trying not to be."
"Stalker."
"I know you cried for an hour after the wedding. Not because you regretted it, but because you wanted it too much."
My breath catches. "How?—"
"Elfe talks when she's drunk."
"I'm going tokillher."
"I know you check your phone every morning, hoping I've texted. I know you drive past my place on your way to work, even though it adds ten minutes. I know you?—"
"Stop." I can't hear more. Can't handle him seeing me so clearly. "Just stop."
"Why? Because I'm right?"
"Because it doesn't matter!" The words explode out of me. "Yes, fine, I think about you. I want you. I fucking dream about you. Happy? But it doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything."
"No, it doesn't. Because you're you—controlled and cold and calculating. And I'm me—chaos and emotion and everything you hate."
"I don't hate anything about you."
"You will." I'm embarrassingly close to tears. "When I'm too loud, too much, too everything. When I can't follow your plansor meet your standards. You'll try to control me, and I'll rebel, and we'll destroy each other."
He's quiet for a long moment. "You done?"
"What?"
"With the excuses. The predictions. The bullshit reasons why we can't work." He leans forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, the only thing destroying us is you refusing to try."
"Emil—"
"I've been patient. Given you space. Let you date idiots who don't deserve to breathe your air. But I'm done watching you pretend you don't feel this."
"Feel what?"
"Everything." The word comes out raw, honest. "I feel everything with you, Saga. And it fucking terrifies me too."
I stare at him, this man who's been carved from stone and discipline, admitting to fear. To feeling.
"I don't know how to do this," I whisper.
"Neither do I." He reaches across the table, palm up. An offer. A choice. "But maybe we can figure it out together."
I look at his hand—scarred and strong and steady. Everything mine aren't. But maybe that's the point. Maybe we don't have to be the same to fit.
"I hate you," I say.
"I hate you," I say, and I mean it.
I hate how he sees through me.
Hate how he knows every thought, every weakness, every single thing I want.
