Page 123 of Manic

Manic slowed his steps, eyes darkening as he gritted, “Your father didn’t kill that investigator, mine did. But I hope whatever god is out there sent Noah to the depths of hell so I can torture him when I arrive.”

Warmth rose to my face.

“And Dmitri?” I asked warily. “What will happen to him? You’re just going to hand me over, aren’t you? Don’t lie to me.”

“I told you, let me handle Dmitri.”

That wasn’t an answer. I didn’t know what he meant or why he would handle Dmitri for me… except for one thing.

“Because I’m yours?” I snapped finally. “Because you’re my stalker?”

“Yes.” He angled his head again, a lock of blond hair falling over his eye. “Do you think I’m capable of letting you go? There is no version of me where I give you up, even to Dmitri. He can want you, but he will never have you. You are mine, whether you admit it or not.”

Mine. He said it so casually, and yet my pulse fluttered like my body lost all sense of logic. Silence festered between us, and Manic pinned me with the eyes of a predator.

No. Not a predator. He stared at me like I was more than prey—more than distraction for his impulses. It was pure adoration. My heart treacherously clenched.

“How long have you known it was me?” he murmured.

“I, uh…” Shit. “A few days.”

“And you’re just now saying something?”

I balled my hands into fists, the bite of my nails stinging my palms. He looked intrigued by the information, but the confirmation stole the breath from my lungs.

He really was my admirer.

Manic had watched me. Manic was the one who’d messaged me, ruined my dates, and consumed my thoughts for five whole years. I had ached for Manic the entire time I didn’t have my phone, and he’d been right in front of my face.

Everything I felt for my admirer slammed into me all at once—as two separate people melded into one right before my eyes. Now that I knew my admirer was Manic, my feelings only deepened. God, I hated myself for wanting him.

“You can’t love me,” I breathed, shaking my head. “It’s impossible for you to feel anything. You said so, yourself.”

It was sobering, saying that out loud. Even if I wanted him to, he couldn’t feel anything. Maybe a part of me longed for the possibility, and I’d said those words like I believed them.

I didn’t. Not a single one.

Manic had his own way of showing he cared. Not with words, but patterns and gifts. In the conversations we shared, and how he never left me alone on my best and worst days.

He was the only one who had lifted me out of the hole I’d dug for myself without knowing. He’d grounded me when I was drowning in guilt. Was it possible for him to care—to love me? After all this time? The question circled my thoughts, over and over and over again.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, prowling closer. “But I sure would love to fucking try.”

I exhaled roughly, unsure of what to think. What to believe. Manic stopped mere inches away, bringing his hand up to my cheek. I fought the instinct to melt against his fingertips, my body shaky and uncertain.

“Why me?” I asked breathlessly. “And why didn’t you tell me? We could have avoided all of this…”

Manic stilled, the clouds of his hard, panted exhales the only indication of him breathing. His gaze never wavered from mine, but his hand fell away. He took a heaving breath, like he was seconds from blowing his fuse.

“And what do you think would have happened if I told you weeks ago, hm? Would you have trusted me?”

Would I have trusted him? Did he want me to?

Even as I tried to dig for an answer, I didn’t have one. There was a good chance I wouldn’t have believed him. My face flamed, and I gritted my teeth. He was dancing around my question, intentionally making my head spin.

“I need an answer. A real one,” I clipped. “Why didn’t you⁠—”

“Because you were the only person who quieted the noise in my head,” he said, like it was a confession. To him. To me. Then a low, frustrated grumble escaped him, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I still don’t understand it, but every time I look at you, the worst parts of me go quiet.”