“Funny, because that’s none of your business,” I mimic his tone.
“You think it makes you prettier? Skinnier?” He laughs, the sound hollow and harsh in the silence of the bathroom. “You can’t hide behind layers of makeup, no matter how much you try to. If you think otherwise, then you need some awareness pills.”
I hit the tap closed harder than needed as I try to control my breathing. His words are like tiny needles getting under my skin and puncturing the veins one by each bloody one.
“I told you,” I grind out through my teeth. “It’s none of your damn business.”
A strong hand wraps around my wrist and I yelp as I’m yanked back so hard, the mouthwash bottle clinks against the lavatory and settles at the bottom of it.
My heart thunders so loudly, I’m surprised it doesn’t follow the bottle and sink somewhere.
He’s…touching me.
Xander has his hands on me. Those same long, lean fingers that are always lost in his hair or wrapped around a joint are now on my wrist.
Oh, God.
Xander’s skin is on mine.
Whoa. What the hell? Is it supposed to feel this overwhelming? It’s only skin against skin. Flesh to flesh. Anatomy.
But it’s not just any skin. It’s his skin.
Xander’s.
Before I can get my mind to concentrate on that fact, he yanks my pullover up my wrist. The same wrist he was staring at earlier.
The wrist.
Shit.
I try to pull away from him, but he pins me against the marble edge of the lavatory, making the cold surface dig into me. He holds my other hand behind my back, disallowing me from moving as his punishing eyes study the marks on my skin.
My gaze strays away, not wanting to see how he looks at me, at that part of me no one should see. Even I don’t like seeing it.
The cut marks are engraved in my head without having to glance at them. They’re messy, but not that deep. Severe, but not deadly.
I was a failure even at that. None of it is elegant and pretty. It’s all a big fucking mess.
“I suppose this is none of my business either.” His voice is light, calm, as if he’s not staring at the most shameful part of me.
How can he manage to make me hate myself by just looking at me? Why does he have that power?
He shouldn’t.
He left me.
He didn’t want to forgive me.
What right does he have to stare at me with those disapproving eyes as if we’re still friends? As if my wellbeing matters?
“It isn’t.” My tone is biting, translating all the frustration bubbling inside me. “You said it yourself that day, we’re strangers and should pretend we don’t know each other, even if we cross paths, right? So be a stranger and leave me the hell alone.”
More importantly, stop looking at me with those eyes.
I’m this close to melting in his touch. His soft touch, even though he’s a brutal, vicious person.
“I said that, didn’t I?” His gaze never leaves my wrist, like it’s the first time he’s seeing a cutting scar.