Page 90 of Love Notes & Lifelines
I glower at him.How dare he?
“Talk, Stella. Now.” His tone is exasperated, but the storm in his eyes tells a different story. Oh my God. He’s angry on my behalf. He’s angry because he cares—about me.
My heart hurts—it throbs and aches like nothing I’ve ever felt. How long has it been since someone actually cared? Elijah cares, but not like this, and it’s because this is different thatI talk, forcing the words I hope will be enough without giving away my entire story while I keep my gaze on a fixed point on the floor. “I’m not relationship material anyway.”
His fingers press into the flesh of my hip. He’s not squeezing—flexing them, maybe. Then he releases me one finger at a time.
“Who told you that?” he rumbles, and I feel it in his chest. “Who. Told. You. That?” Each word is punctuated with a pause.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
His hand finds my ponytail again and he tightens his grip against my scalp. I wince, not out of pain, but with desire that has no place in this situation, especially given my history, but it doesn’t make what I’m feeling untrue.
God. If he were Silas, I’d be a mess, but he’s not Silas. Beck is everything Silas will never be.
He leans his head closer to my face—his glare is so intense I need sunglasses.
“Beck, you’re hurting me.” I lie.Will he let me go?The rage hiding his face is gone with a blink of his eyes and he releases me immediately. I shouldn’t have lied—I instantly miss his hold.
“Who told you that, Stella?” His voice shakes. Why is he so mad?
“It truly doesn’t matter.”
“Was it the same donkey who gave you that awful ring?”
I can’t hide my flinch and he cups my face again with the tenderness of a lover.
“Give me a name.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but the name slips out. “Silas.”
His eyes narrow and he presses his lips into a hard line. Beck’s patience appears to be running thin. “Last name. What is his last name?”
This time I do pull away from his grasp and shake my head.
“Fuck. I’m fucked up, Stella, but at least I had a hand in causing it.”
He thinks I’m fucked up?
“Whoever hurt you, whoever put those shadows in your eyes, is not a man. Tell me you get that.”
I don’t understand the anger, the emotion, the blinding fury that’s swirling to life inside of him. Is it for me? Because of me? Will he tell me to leave just when I’m finally feeling as though I belong and not only because someone needs me, but because they care if I’m around?
“Beck,” I say, attempting to redirect this conversation. “I’m really tired.”
He leans into the sofa and studies me. “In the office, you’re everyone’s helper. Here, you do all the little things that make a family run, but you do it quietly, behind the scenes.”
I remain silent but fear kicks up dust in my stomach.
“What did he do that makes you turn yourself inside out to be someone everyone needs but never really knows?”
He’s summed up my life in one sad sentence. I leap to my feet, but he follows me.
“I’m tired.” My chin trembles.
“That wasn’t a dig, sweetheart. That’s me fully understanding what I’m dealing with and trying to contain a rage that makes me liable to murder a man I’ve never met.”
“I’m tired,” I whisper meekly.
