Azriel's lips twitched at her words, but the sight of her tear-bright eyes struck something raw in his chest.
"Just what are you talking about? Hate myself? When did I ever say that…?"
He swung his legs off the bed and stood, facing her with a confused, complicated look.
"…Are you seriously going to pretend?"
"Pretend what, exactly?"
He didn't understand.
Wasn't she being unreasonable—suddenly assuming something like that about him? When had he ever given the impression that he hated himself?
Yet Jasmine's eyes held so much hurt that Azriel felt, absurdly, as if he were the one in the wrong. Why did she look like that?
She answered mournfully, as if forcing stones through her throat. Her voice was so soft it might have been blown to him on a draft.
"…That you want to die."
"—!"
His eyes flew wide. The words knocked the air from his lungs.
"I don't understand… I don't understand what you're saying, Jasmine."
