The first thing I saw was the deed. Official, legal, stamped and signed with all the proper seals and notarizations. The address was printed in bold letters at the top—the house. The one Rowen had shown me on that perfect autumn afternoon, the one with the sprawling backyard and the white picket fence, the kitchen island where he’d said we could make breakfast together on Sunday mornings, and the master bedroom that overlooked the garden where roses would bloom in the spring.
The one he’d promised me we’d grow old in together.
My vision blurred as hot tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill over. I blinked hard, forcing myself to focus through the haze, forcing myself to look at the second document, a letter, written in that same careful, measured script.
My dearest Melissa,
By the time you read this, I will have made a choice that I know you won’t understand. That you’ll hate me for. And you have every right to.
I wanted to give you the world. I wanted to give you that house, that life, that future we talked about in whispers when we thought no one was listening. I wanted to be the man who woke up next to you every morning, who taught his classes andcame home to you every night, who built something real and good and untouched by the darkness I’ve spent my life running from.
But wanting something and being able to have it are two different things.
The truth is, I’ve been lying to myself. Telling myself I could walk away, that I could leave this life behind and pretend it never existed. That I could be normal for you. With you.
But I can’t. Not while the people who killed Travis are still out there, still hunting, still threatening everything you and I care about.
You asked me once what I was willing to sacrifice for the people I love. I didn’t have an answer then. I do now.
Everything.
I’m willing to sacrifice everything—my freedom, my future, my soul if necessary, to make sure those I care about are safe. To make sure they can live the life they deserve, even if I can’t be part of it.
This world is a monster, Melissa. I know that. But it’s a monster I understand. One I can control. And if controlling it means you get to sleep at night without fear, without looking over your shoulder, without wondering if today is the day someone comes for you, then it’s worth it.
I know you’ll argue. You’ll say I’m throwing my life away, that this isn’t what I wanted, that you never asked for this sacrifice. And you’re right. You didn’t ask for any of this. But I’m giving it to you anyway because I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.
The house is yours. The deed is in your name. It’s paid for, free and clear. No strings, no conditions. It’s the one thing I can give you that’s untouched by all of this, a place that’s just yours, where you can build whatever life you choose and raise Danika and your child in peace.
I wish things could be different. I wish I could be the man you deserve, the one who takes you to faculty dinners and argues about literature over breakfast and grows old with you in that house with the garden.
But I’m not that man. I never was.
I’m the man who kills to protect what’s his. Who burns the world down to keep you safe. Who walks into darkness so you can stay in the light.
And I’d do it again. A thousand times over.
I love you, Melissa. I will always love you.
Even if you hate me for this.
Especially if you hate me for this.
Yours always... Rowen
The letter slipped from my hands, the paper fluttering to the ground like a wounded bird. I couldn’t hold it anymore, couldn’t bear the weight of his words, the finality of them. The ink seemed to burn itself into my memory, each carefully chosen phrase a brand against my soul.
“No,” I whispered, the sound barely audible even to my own ears. “No, this isn’t—He can’t—”
My knees buckled beneath me, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. I would have hit the floor hard if Sinclair hadn’t caught me, his hands firm and steady on my shoulders as he guided me into the nearest chair. The world tilted and spun around me.
“Breathe, Melissa,” he said quietly, his voice cutting through the roaring in my ears. “Just breathe.”
But I couldn’t. The air wouldn’t come, no matter how hard I tried to draw it in. My chest was too tight; my throat was too constricted by grief and disbelief. Everything hurt—my heart, my lungs, my bones. Everything. It was as if my entire body was rejecting this reality, refusing to accept what I’d just read.
“He’s giving up his life,” I choked out, the words raw and broken. “He’s giving upeverything. His future, his dreams, his very existence.”
“Yes,” Sinclair said simply, his tone maddeningly calm.
