Shadowfever (Fever #5)

by Karen Marie Moning

“Is that your way of saying it?” “That’s my way of saying grow up, little girl.” I skidded to a halt, slipping and sliding on the black marble floor. The instant I stopped running, he did, too, as if we were bound by the same tether. “If I’m a little girl, then that makes you a serious pervert.” The things we did together … I shot him a graphic reminder with my eyes. Oh, so you’re finally ready to talk about them, his dark gaze mocked. Maybe I don’t want to now. Too bad. You were always slapping me in the face with reminders. Turnabout’s fair play. But it sure wasn’t a little girl back in that bed, Jericho. It’s not a little girl you’re messing with now. I poked him in the chest with my finger. “You died in front of my eyes and let me believe it was real, you bastard!” I felt like I was being torn in half—pulled toward the boudoir by destiny, rooted in place by the need to air my grievances. He knocked my finger away. “Do you think it was fun for me?” “I hated watching you die!” “I hated doing it. It hurts every damned time.” “I grieved!” I shouted. “I felt guilty—” “Guilt isn’t grief,” he snapped. “And lost—” “Get a fucking road map. Lost isn’t grief, either.” “And—and—and—” I broke off. There was no way I was telling him all the things I’d really felt. Like destroying the world for him. “And what? What did you feel?” “Guilt,” I shouted. I punched him, hard. He shoved me, and I stumbled back against the wall. I shoved him back. “And lost.”