Page 52 of Obsessed by My Ex's Mafia Uncle

I refuse to give it shape.

My chest rises too fast, my breath jagged, my thoughts tripping over each other because there’s too much happening at once.

Seeing him. Being here. Feeling this.

Again!

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I fume, gesturing vaguely toward the door like it proves something, like it anchors me back into the life I actually belong to. “Why the hell do you think it was okay to do this?”

Still, he gives nothing. No reaction or attempt to match me. He just watches, letting me burn through it as if he knows this is necessary.

And that makes me angrier. Because I don’t know where to put this if he’s not pushing back.

“Answer me!” I snap, stopping abruptly, turning on him again, my hands slightly raised like I’m trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping.

He doesn’t, he just stands there looking at me. Smiling.

And it feels like I’m the only one in this room affected by what’s happening. Like I’m the only one who understands how impossible this is.

Which only makes it worse. Because I do understand. I understand exactly what this is doing to me. And I hate that he can see it. I hate that he’s watching it happen.

I hate that he’s still standing there like he’s already won something I haven’t agreed to give him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I bite out, my voice lower now but no less slicing.

I turn, walking past him, close enough to feel the heat of him, his presence, and the way my body is suddenly too aware of where he is in the room.

I hate that.

I hate it more than anything.

The decanter catches my eye and I’m heading toward it. My hand reaches for the glass already sitting beside it, fingers wrapping around it without asking.

I pour and just drink, taking a large swallow that is way too much for my constricting throat.

The burn punches hard, dragging down my throat, biting through my chest, and forcing a breath out of me that I didn’t realize I was holding.

Good.

I need that.

I set the glass down with more force than necessary, my hand lingering on the edge of the table for a second before I straighten again.

And then, I look at him.

Really look, which is my mistake.

Because he’s striking. Still striking in a way that commands.

The charcoal suit fits him like it was built for him. The open collar of his shirt exposes just enough to make my temperature rise. His posture hasn’t changed. His gaze hasn’t softened, it burns under my skin.

I swallow, shaking my head to throw the madness into the dark that I've kept it all these years.

I straighten, pulling myself back together, forcing my shoulders into place, forcing my breathing to smooth out.

“I’m not staying,” I announce. “Whatever this is, you’ve made your point. I saw you. You saw me. That’s where this ends.”

I walk past him again, turning toward the door, already done, already stepping away from this before it takes anything else from me.