"Don't call me 'uncle,'" he growls as he slams the hotel door. "I won't," I say, but my voice is small and wet. The lock clicks. The city lights pour in through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a watcher. Jonas stands with his back to the room, palms flat on the glass. "Say it again," he orders. "I won't," I repeat, louder. My fingers find the cuff of my sleeve, twisting the fabric until the seam bites. He turns. He looks dangerous the way a storm looks dangerous—contained, on a timer. "You're not a child, Ella," he says. "Stop pretending you think in terms I can accept." "Then stop calling me that," I snap. "You know why it hurts." He crosses the room in three steps. He doesn't touch me when he stops. He never wastes touch. "You think names decide things?" he asks. His voice drops. "You think a label changes the fact you walked into my suite at midnight?" "I didn't come here to talk," I say. "I came to get my things." "You came to get my things?" He lifts one brow. "You left your hands on my shirt." Silence for a beat. Then he laughs, short and sharp. "You're ridiculous." "I could leave," I say. "I could walk out the door and never come back." "You could," he agrees. "But you won't." "I said I would," I insist. "Jonas, I—" He steps so close the air