I'd be better if you stayed.
The memory of her voice saying those words—soft, honest, wanting, brave—nearly broke what was left of my resolve.
I could knock. Three sharp raps against wood. She'd open the door within seconds, probably already halfway there because she'd been hoping for this. Expecting it, maybe. Wanting it as much as I did.
I'd walk back in without saying anything because words would just complicate things, would give us both too much time to think.
Close the distance. Finally close the fucking distance that had been killing me all night, that had been building since this morning in the clinic.
Kiss her the way I'd wanted to kiss her from the moment I saw her. Not gentle. Not patient. Not careful. Deep and consuming and honest about exactly what I wanted from her, exactly where this was heading.
And then?—
Then I'd back her against the nearest wall because the bedroom was too far away and I'd already waited longer than I thought possible. Hands sliding under that oversized sweater, feeling warm skin and soft curves I'd only seen through clothing, mapping her body with touch instead of just imagination. Her legs wrapping around my waist like they belonged there, like her body recognized mine. That little surprised sound she'd make when I kissed her neck, when I bit down gently where it met her shoulder, marked her asmine.
The way she'd move against me, impatient, needy, wanting more than I was giving her, demanding it without words.
How tight she'd feel when I finally pushed inside her after too much teasing, too much buildup, too much waiting for something we both wanted.
How her eyes would go wide for just a second—surprise, pleasure, maybe a hint of overwhelmed at the intensity—before they glazed over completely with sensation.
How she'd say my name differently then. Breathless. Desperate. Wrecked.
Kane.
Like I was the only thing that mattered in her entire world.
No.
I pushed away from the door hard enough that my shoulder protested sharply, muscle complaining about the abuse.
I can't.
Ican'tdo this.
She was grieving. Vulnerable. Raw from loss and looking for anything—anything—to make her feel less alone in the middle of a nightmare she hadn't asked for and didn't deserve.
And I was?—
I was dangerous.
For her. For this situation. For everything she didn't understand yet about who I was and what I'd done and what was coming for me.
I'd drag her into darkness she wasn't prepared for. Get her killed, probably, the way everything I touched eventually broke or bled or died.
Better to leave now while I still could. While she still had a chance at walking away from this intact.
I forced myself to walk. Down the hallway with deliberate steps, each one harder than the last. Down the stairs, hand trailing on the railing for something solid to hold onto. Out into the cool Paris night that did absolutely nothing to calm the heat still coursing through my veins like fire.
But not so quickly that I was reckless about it.
Not so quickly that I stopped paying attention to my surroundings, to threats, to problems.
Because they'd found me.
St. Paul's.
After years of staying invisible, of being so fucking careful—they'd found me, anyway.
