Page 63 of Shattered Crown
"It's clearly a bedroom."
"I don't care what it is." My voice rose. "I care that I'm stuck here with you. And I don't want to be."
"The feeling is mutual."
Silence crashed down between us. I stared at the ceiling. Cracked plaster, water stains spreading from the corners like old bruises. Sebastian stared at the floor, his jaw working,his shoulders rigid. The only sound was our breathing. And somewhere beyond the grimy, boarded-up window, the distant crash of waves.
Minutes crawled past. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
I shifted on the bed, trying to find a position that didn't make my back ache. My sundress was going to be filthy. I'd probably have to throw it away. Such a stupid thing to think about, but my mind kept snagging on small details because the big ones were too overwhelming.
Sebastian hadn't moved from his position against the wall, but I could see the tension building in his body. The way he kept shifting his weight. The way his fingers drummed against his bicep. The way he'd glance at me, then away, then back again.
An hour passed. Maybe more. Time moved strangely in that room.
"This is ridiculous," I finally said. My voice sounded too loud in the silence.
"Agreed."
"We're adults. We should be able to have a conversation."
He looked at me. "Are you sure about that? Every time I open my mouth, you bite my head off."
"That's because you always say the wrong thing."
"And you don't?" He pushed off the wall, taking a step toward me. "You're not exactly easy to talk to either."
Heat flared in my chest. "See? This is exactly why I didn't want to be stuck here with you. You always find a way to make me so angry."
"And you think I enjoy being around you?" Another step. His eyes were blazing now, that cold gray gone hot. "You're so…" He made a frustrated sound, running his hand through his hair. "You make me crazy."
"Yeah?" I was on my feet now, though I didn't remember standing. "Better book a therapy session, because I'm not done with you yet."
We were close. Too close. I could see the rise and fall of his chest, the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. His eyes dropped to my lips and stayed there.
I knew what was about to happen. Could feel it building like a wave about to break.
I stepped back. Put distance between us.
"I told you not to do that again."
Something flickered across his face. He looked away, toward the grimy window, his jaw tight.
Neither of us spoke.
We stayed like that, him by the window, me on the bed, while another hour crawled past. The light outside slowly changed, growing golden as the afternoon aged. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air. My throat was dry, my eyes gritty, my whole body wound tight as a spring.
"I'm sorry."
His voice startled me. I'd gotten so used to the silence that the words felt like an intrusion.
"For yelling," he continued, still not looking at me. "I shouldn't have done that."
I didn't respond. I wasn't sure what to say.
He turned then, finally meeting my eyes. "What do you want me to say, Aria? I've apologized. Doesn't that count for something?"
I gritted my teeth. I didn't want to forgive him. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction. But we were stuck here, and the silence was crushing, and maybe—maybe—I was tired of carrying this anger everywhere I went.
