Gulp.....
The water slides down my throat—cool, reluctant, forced—like a truth I never asked to swallow. Some of it escapes, spilling past the seal of our lips, trailing in thin rivulets down my chin, down his, dripping onto the sheets between us.
I gasp sharply as Silas finally pulls away, air rushing into my lungs as though I've been drowning for hours. My hand flies to my mouth, wiping away the lingering wetness, smearing it across my lips and jaw as if I can scrub away the memory of his touch.
Silas watches me.
His gaze is steady, unflinching, carrying an unnerving calm that only feeds the storm raging inside me. His tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, catching the moisture still clinging to his lower lip—a small, almost absentminded gesture that feels like a deliberate provocation.
Something inside me splinters.
Words are useless now. They've failed me. I don't use them anymore. I use my hand.
I strike.
