I stood. Slowly. My bare feet whispering against the wood floor. My linen lounge pants hung low on my hips, the tank top soft with wear. No makeup. No armor.
I opened the door.
And there he was.
Silas Dane.
His shirt was wrinkled. His jaw dark with stubble. There was a fading bruise high on his cheekbone, and a cut near his temple that looked like it had been cleaned but not cared for. His eyes—those cool, storm-colored eyes—burned when they met mine.
He looked tired. More than tired.
He looked wrecked.
And I hated that he still made my pulse trip.
“Hi,” he said.
Just that.
Like he hadn’t disappeared.
Like he hadn’t left me wondering if I was losing my mind.
I didn’t speak.
He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just slightly. “I didn’t think I’d come. I was gonna leave again. Just … disappear.”
I crossed my arms. Not to defend myself. To hold myself together.
“And yet here you are.”
His jaw flexed. “When I heard Monte was with you … That night …”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
“I thought maybe …” He hesitated, eyes flicking past me to the glow of my suite, the lingering scent of butter and salt in the air. “I thought you’d made your choice.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t.”
“You kissed him.”
“I was tired,” I said, voice trembling, “and lonely, and I wanted to feel something that didn’t scare me.”
He stepped forward.
I didn’t stop him.
He was close now, the line of his body a heat I could feel all over mine.
“And did it work?” he asked.
I looked up at him. Took in the bruise, the stubble, the storm in his eyes.
“No,” I whispered. “It didn’t work.”
He exhaled, rough and ragged. Like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he left.
“I went looking for something,” he said. “Someone. It didn’t matter. I just needed to run.”
