Page 128 of The Final Cut

My voice comes out low and harsh enough to make her flinch, and I hate myself for it. I pull her up with both hands under her arms and keep her against me when she tries to twist free.

“Do not kneel to me for him,” I say, softer now, but no less firm. “Do you understand me? Not for this. Not ever.”

Her eyes fill. “Then take me.”

“I can’t.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I won’t,” I agree. “Because I love you more than I fear you hating me for it.”

She shoves at my chest. I let her have the first one. Not the second.

When she hits me again, I catch both wrists and hold them between us. The air changes. Her body knows before her temper admits it.

“Bedroom,” I say.

Her chin jerks up. “Excuse me?”

“Now.”

“You think you can order me out of this conversation?”

“I think if we continue it in front of everyone, you will say things to make me hurt because you are hurting, and I will still not take you to the hospital.”

Her throat works.

“This does not end with you going,” I say. “It can end with me holding you while you break or with you tearing yourself open for an audience. Choose.”

Her eyes search mine. She looks away first.

I keep her wrists in one hand and lead her down the hall. No one speaks behind us.

The master suite is excessive in the way hotels mistake space for peace. A bed wide enough for three. Low lamps. A view of the city through glass that makes me want curtains, steel, and twenty more men. I close the door and lock it, then release Reva’s wrists.

She spins on me immediately. “You don’t get to make me feel ridiculous for wanting to see my father.”

“I am not doing that.”

“You made me stop.”

“Yes.”

“I hate you a little right now.”

“I can live with that.”

That seems to make her angrier, and that’s okay. Anger is easier to work with than despair.

She stalks toward the window, and I catch her before she reaches the glass, turning her back against the wall beside it instead. Not hard. Enough to remind her there are edges around her body, that she is here, alive, not running through hospital corridors chasing a fear Isabel would happily weaponize.

“Look at me.”

“No.”

I put two fingers under her chin and lift. Her eyes are wet. Furious. Exhausted.

“Breathe.”