“This is about Elodie, isn’t it?” I stare back at him defiantly. “Yes. Of course it’s about Elodie. Who else would it be about?” “You’re in love with her.” “Yes.” “God save us!” Pax roars. “You are not in love with that girl, Wren. She’s fucking nothing. She’s just some little French who—” Pain rockets up my arm, screaming in my shoulder joint. Pax hits the ground ass-first, sliding across the floorboards. In half a second flat, I’m on top of him, grabbing him by the throat, winding up to hit him again. I’m deadly calm. “Say it. Go on say it. Finish that fucking sentence.”
