"You think I know?" It's snapped. Everything he was saying was just reaffirming things she'd already asked herself and come up blank on. She knew it was connected to her. It wasn't just some random happenstance in that room. It was her. Death. She shook the feeling with a roll of her shoulders just as it crept up her spine and settled in again.

"I'm not crazy." Her voice was steady and stubborn, less reactionary as she forced the words out. She wasn't. She'd spent entirely too long convincing herself of that to be proven wrong now. As if it wasn't her first thought. As if the things she dreamt, the things she saw? Didn't make her wonder. But, she wasn't. She wasn't. "It was some trick of the club, it wasn't anything that's wrong with me." And fuck him for insinuating otherwise.

Defensive and thoroughly done with this line of questioning -- why had she ever felt for him when he looked so defeated upon hearing he was soulless? He was an ass. And the further he pushed this, the more it reminded her -- she turned heel and moved to head back inside the hotel.