Page 87 of Molt

I shove her away.

She hits the table.

The look on her face…

God. I remember that look.

Not fear. Betrayal.

“You hurt me.”

I release her instantly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Lenora…”

“Don’t.” She walks toward the door.

I block it.

She looks at me. “Move.”

“No.”

“August.”

“No.”

“Move.”

“No.”

She picks up the fireplace poker.

I laugh. Not because it is funny. Because by then we’re both unraveling. “Do it.”

Her face crumples. “Move.”

“Make me.”

“August.”

“Maybe this is what we keep doing wrong.”

“What?”

“Maybe one of us has to fucking die.”

Her eyes widen as the poker trembles.

I step closer. “Do it.”

“Stop.”

“Kill me.”

“August.”