“I’m sorry,” I say, and it’s too small for what I did.
She laughs again, a sound that isn’t laughter. “Sorry?” She points the phone at me like a gun. “Was that part of the plan? To say it like you mean it? To look at me like—like I mattered?”
I stand slowly, hands up again. “You matter.”
“Shut up.” Her eyes are wet now, vulnerability streaming down her cheeks, and she’s furious about it. “Shut up before I… Fuck, Evan, I told you I loved you. And you said you loved me. Was any of it real?”
Her words, her posture, her eyes, my heart — they break.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
“How the fuck was it supposed to happen? Were you just supposed to fuck me, get close to the clubhouse, get whatever the fuck you wanted, and then just move on without breaking my heart? Without making me think that I could let someone in close enough to make me feel like I actually fucking mattered? I mean, you studied accounting with me. Accounting! What kind of fucking psychopath does that all for some fucking lie? You’re a fucking monster.”
She lunges.
I block, forearms up, taking the hit against my arm instead of my face. She swings again; I catch her arm gently, redirecting, never gripping hard, never striking back.
She’s strong. Fast. All sharp edges and survival.
And every blow is a condemnation:I trusted you. I trusted you. I trusted you.
“Molly, please.” My voice is rough. “I didn’t want to fall for you.”
She freezes for half a heartbeat, chest heaving.
Then she slaps me again.
This one is quieter. Almost worse.
“I hate you,” she whispers. “I hate you and I hope you fucking die.”
“No, you don’t.” I shouldn’t say it. I say it anyway. “You’re hurt.”
Her eyes go bright with tears. “You don’t get to tell me what I feel.”
She steps back, backing toward the bedroom door, like she’s putting distance between us so she doesn’t do something she can’t take back.
My heart is in my throat. Despite all the hurt, I don’t want her to leave. I want her to stay and scream at me for as long as she needs. “Molly, don’t go. We need to talk.”
“Talk? Talking is fucking over. If I see you again,” she says, voice low and deadly, “I’ll kill you. And if anyone in the club sees you… Oh, I don’t have the words to describe what they’ll do to you. Leave Ironwood Falls, Evan. Leave, and never fucking come back.”
Then she turns and storms out.
The front door slams so hard that the walls tremble.
I stand there in the wreckage — arm bleeding, cheek stinging — staring at the door like it might open again and give me one more chance.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Molly
Study. Focus. Build myself.
Move on.
It doesn’t mean a damn thing that Evan Wilder lied through his teeth when he said he loved me. That he cooked me a steak dinner while I was using his shower. That he helped me study accounting until I actually felt comfortable with it. None of that matters. Because at the core of it all, I’m still me. Still Molly ‘Molotov’ Rogers and I’m moving on from that lying, heart-breaking, handsome asshole.
Fuck him.
