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“What is wrong with you? You have this crazed look in your eyes. God, you’re not pregnant, are you, Clio?”
“How could I be when you haven’t touched me in four months?”
The minute she said it, Clio blinked.
Was it any wonder he had walked all over her? The very way she had framed her question meant she had given all her power to him. Every aspect of their relationship had been his to rule.
Something close to shame crossed his face. Would he apologize? Would he make an excuse? Her heart rising to her throat, Clio waited with bated breath. And hated herself a little more for the fact that she did.
“That’s not my fault, is it?” he said, his gaze shying away from hers. And something monumental crumbled inside Clio. If there could be a sound for despondence, it would be the sound that she caught in her throat.
“Half the time, you’re unhappy with yourself, half the time, you are unhappy with me. And you have a hundred hang-ups about sex. For Christ’s sake, Clio, sex is not always about cuddling, and sharing dreams and words of love. Sex should sometimes be just bloody sex. Nothing wrong with letting go in bed. But you can never do that, can you?”
“Do you not care at all about how I feel, Jackson?” The pitiful question left her mouth before Clio knew she was asking it. The desperation in her tone tied with the almost hopeful note made bile rise in her throat.
It was like watching an alternate version of herself talking to Jackson, hoping he would give an answer that would fix everything she had heard last night, as if it could magically erase the ugliness of their relationship.
That infinitesimal sliver of hope was the most pathetic thing she had ever seen in her life.
I don’t trust you to not crawl back to him while I’m gone.
Stefan’s word pricked her and she turned away from Jackson.
Everything inside her shook, everything inside her wanted to fall apart and give in to the maelstrom of grief swirling within. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
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