Jake stared at the door long after it had shut. Part of him wanted to run after her, to say something, anything, to make her stay. But his legs wouldn’t move.
He sank into the chair behind the desk, elbows braced on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. His chest ached like something was being ripped in two.
How had someone he’d only really spent a week with come to mean so damn much?
“f*****g mate bond,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. “Makes no f*****g sense.”
She hadn’t told him about the witch.
She hadn’t let him help hide the journals.
She hadn’t trusted him. Not really.
And maybe he didn’t blame her.
He exhaled sharply and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. His knuckles still throbbed from hitting his father, but surprisingly, he didn’t regret it
