I said nothing. I simply stubbed the cigarette out and walked past him toward the bathroom.
He followed immediately.
"Did you hear me?" he demanded, irritation already creeping into his voice.
Of course he was irritated. I had always revolved around him, always responded, always complied. I had never pushed back, never ignored him. Now that I wasn't reacting the way he expected, it unsettled him.
"I heard you," I replied, my tone flat, almost absent.
Dante paused, clearly thrown off.
Through the mirror, I could see him watching me closely, his brows drawing together. He was still wearing his coat, the signet ring on his right hand catching the bathroom light. His thumb moved once over it, a slow rotation, then stopped.
"What's wrong with you?"
His gaze dropped, landing on my collarbone where the edge of a bandage peeked out from beneath my clothes.
"What happened to your neck?"
He stepped closer, reaching out instinctively as if to check it himself.
But I turned away before his fingers could touch me.
His hand stopped midair, suspended awkwardly. For a split second, something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or annoyance.
For once, I didn't let him touch me.