Chapter 1067
The car surged forward. Alistair stared out the window, his hand resting absently on the cat carrier. The kitten inside meowed pitifully.
“The cat is hungry,” Alistair said, his voice flat. “It wants its mother.”
Skye looked at him. Beneath the anger, beneath the lethal possessiveness, she saw the fear. He wasn’t angry that she had seen Liam. He was terrified that she still needed him—that the normal, safe love Liam offered was something Alistair could never give her.
The ride back to the penthouse was suffocating. Alistair didn’t speak. He simply radiated a dark, brooding energy that filled the cabin.
When they arrived, he grabbed the cat carrier and marched to the elevator. Skye followed, her heels clicking on the marble floor.
Inside the apartment, Alistair set the carrier on the kitchen island. He turned to face her, ripping off his tie.
“Why?” he demanded. “Why did you go?”
“Because I needed closure!” Skye shouted back. “Because he is a human being who is rotting in a cell for us! Not everything is a strategic maneuver, Alistair! Sometimes people just care about each other!”
Alistair paced the room like a caged tiger. “I care about you! I protect you! I kill for you! Is that not enough? Do you need his soft, weak brand of caring?”
“It’s not about weak or strong!” Skye grabbed his arm, stopping him. “It’s about balance! You are all fire and steel. Liam was… safe. I just needed to say goodbye to safe.”
Alistair froze. He looked down at her hand on his arm, then up at her face. His expression crumbled for a split second, revealing a raw, bleeding vulnerability.
“I can be safe,” he whispered. It sounded like a lie he desperately wanted to believe.
“Can you?” Skye asked softly. “You tracked me. You threatened to burn down a prison. That isn’t safe, Alistair. That’s obsession.”
Alistair pulled away. He walked to the window and looked out at the city. “I don’t know how to love you quietly, Skye. My love is a riot. It’s a siege. If that scares you… then maybe you should have stayed with him.”
Skye walked up behind him. She saw the tension in his back. She saw the bandage peeking out from under his shirt collar—a fresh wound he hadn’t mentioned.
She reached out and touched it. “What is this?”
Alistair flinched. “Nothing. A disagreement with a supplier this morning.”
“You got hurt,” Skye said. “And you hid it.”
“Pain is irrelevant,” Alistair said automatically.
“No.” Skye turned him around. She unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a nasty knife slash across his ribs—stitched up, but angry and red. “This is real. You feel this.”
She placed her hand over his heart. It was racing. Fast. Frantic.
“And you feel this,” she said, looking into his eyes. “You aren’t a machine, Alistair. You are terrified.”
Alistair covered her hand with his. His grip was trembling.