Petty wasn’t exactly smashed, but the alcohol was definitely getting to her. She wouldn’t normally say something like that in front of other people. The words slipped out before she even realized it, her stomach churning.
But now, with the buzz in full effect, all her self-control was gone. Staring at him, she felt everything she’d been bottling up—hurt, frustration, all of it—finally explode.
“Are you actually capable?” Her eyes were red and watery. “If you are, then why did you only touch me three times in three years?”
Franco’s grip on her waist tightened. His expression darkened, his jaw set.
Then, in the next moment, Petty’s eyes filled with tears. They spilled down her cheeks, one after another.
She hung her head, her voice trembling, barely more than a whisper. “It’s not that you can’t...”
“Franco, you just don’t love me.”
“That’s why you don’t touch me. You don’t love me.”
She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. Her voice cracked with pain. “If you don’t love me, fine. But why did you stop protecting me?”
“When they dragged me into that alley and beat me, it really hurt.”
With all her defenses gone, Petty trembled, tears sliding from her sad, wounded eyes.
Her fingers shook as she pressed them to her chest, her voice dropping lower. She spoke slowly, like every word hurt. “I’m actually really scared of pain.”
“Franco... did you forget? I feel pain.”
“When we were kids, you saved me. You pulled me back from the edge. How could you forget to protect me? Why are you protecting the people who hurt me instead?”
“No... that can’t be right...”
She pressed her hand to her aching head, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling a little as if it might help her think. Her body swayed, but his strong hand kept her steady.

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