Patricia's POV...
And why on earth should I let him be?
He's mine. That trash can't take him.
She can't have him. I won't allow it.
I ran out of the room—his room. The one I'd been sleeping in with him for years. The one with my clothes in the closet and my perfume on the dresser. The voices were coming from downstairs. His voice—low, possessive. And hers—a breathy, broken sound.
I followed them.
Down the hall.
Down the tiring stairs.
Just around the corner.
And I saw them.
Tears that had refused to fall fell. Like oceans.
I hated the image I was seeing. I do not want to act childish, or stupid.
But my heart burns—like giving your everything to fire, wishing it would warm you, but it doesn't pity. It just consumes.
He was holding her.
Carrying her like a child. Like she was precious. Like she was fragile. Like she was something to be protected. Her arms were wrapped around his neck. Her face was buried in his chest. Her tears soaking into his shirt.
