"Stop lying to Luca, my friend! ("")
Before I could stop them, the words sprang from me and echoed down the pack house's vacant passage. Luca stopped, his wide shoulders tight as his palm rested on the edge of the table.
His voice low but strained, he replied, "I'm not lying."
Then tell me the truth, I said, approaching closely. "Why do you turn off every time the past surfaces? Given what you know, what exactly frightens you?"
His grey eyes wavered with something I couldn't quite identify: agony, anxiety, maybe wrath. At last he whispered, "You don't want to know, Aria." "Believe me."
"Stop telling me to trust you when you won't even trust me with the truth," I yelled back, my chest constricting.
Luca's jaw tightened, and I briefly considered him perhaps storming off. Then he turned completely to face me, his eyes weighty. "You are seeking the truth?" Okay. But avoid claiming, "I didn't warn you."
