He blinks in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re not going out,” I say again. I rise to my feet, grab his chair, and start pushing him back down the hall.
He’s still baffled, too bewildered to even try to resist. He just keeps saying my name—“Bash? Bash?”—again and again as I return him to his room. “Bastian, what’re you—”
I yank the door shut and lock it from the outside. When he realizes what I’ve done, he starts beating on the door with his fists. He’s saying my name still, but roaring it this time, a cry of anguish and betrayal.
“Basti! Bastian, what the f**k?! Bash! Bash!”
I turn my back on all of it. I’m sorry, I think. I’m so f*****g sorry.
But sorry doesn’t fix anything. It never has. The only thing that’s ever changed anything is blood. Mine or someone else’s,
