“It’s beautiful,” she says, closing the box with a soft click. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t put it on. Doesn’t even look at it again. Just tucks the box into her knapsack like it’s any other piece of luggage and waits for my next instruction.
Something snaps inside my head. “That’s it?” The words explode out of me, loud enough that several passersby turn to stare. “That’s all you have to say?”
Astra takes a small step back, her eyes going wide. Through our bond, I feel her fear spike—fear not of me, never of me, but of something I can’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I said thank you. What else—”
“I don’t want your f*****g false gratitude.” The curse makes her flinch, and I force myself to lower my voice. “I want you to tell me what you think. Do you like it? Do you hate it? Do y
