Cellie's POV
I was a terrible person.
Not in the casual, self-deprecating way people say it when they eat the last slice of pizza or cancel plans. I mean it with the full, clinical weight of someone who had just watched a genuine human being absorb a blow she delivered and was now sitting three inches away from the aftermath, completely unable to undo it.
Demetrio had not moved since we got in the car. His face was set on the window, profile unreadable, the specific quality of a man who had decided stillness was the only safe response to whatever was happening inside him. I had seen Demetrio annoyed, cold, furious, and about twelve variations of dangerous. I had not seen this before. This was quieter than all of those and it was so much worse.
I knew what I had done.
