His footsteps are quiet on the linoleum. He stops somewhere behind me, close enough that I can hear him breathing. I brace myself for the inevitably smug, smirking I told you so that we’ve been building toward.
But he doesn’t say anything for so long that, finally, I force myself to look at him.
He’s not gloating. He’s not smiling, either. He looks almost as wrecked as I feel.
“I thought you should know who he really is,” he explains quietly. “Before you threw everything away for him.”
“Why do you care what I throw away?”
I sound like a b***h, but I’m long past caring about that. I’m just so tired. I’ve been battered and bruised by these Lazarev men and I just don’t think I have any more fight left in me.
Kir doesn’t answer for a long moment. He stands there with his hands in his poc
