Page 137 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

The terror of the last several hours hits me again. “I didn’t know if I was going to make it out.”

He digs his fingers into my hips, and at first I think he’s trying to shake some sense into me, but he’s the one who’s shaking.

“You can’t do that to me. You can’t do that ever again.” His eyes are bottomless as he gazes up at me from his knees. “I said goodbye to you once, and I told myself it was okay because I knew you’d be out there in the world.” His shoulders lift when he sucks in a steadying breath. “But if you ever leave this world, I don’t know what I’d do. Please, please don’t do that again.”

“Hugo.” I press my thumb to the moisture at the corner of his eye. “That was the man who hurt you.”

“And?”

“And I couldn’t let that go unanswered.”

“What?” He pulls away to look at me, baffled. “Why would you risk your life like that? You could’ve died tonight for nothing.”

“Nothing? Even if they catch me, even if I’d died, I’ll never be sorry I did it.”

He shakes his head, still not understanding. “Why?”

I slide my fingers into his hair to stop the movement. “Because nobody touches what’s mine.”

He stills immediately. “What’s… yours?”

My fingers tighten around those soft strands, fisting and pulling until his head’s tilted up to meet my gaze.

“That’s right. Mine.”

Time fractures as we stare at each other, Hugo’s pupils expanding, his lips parting. Then he surges up and pushes me backward onto the bed. His mouth lands on mine before his body does, and as much as I’m desperate for the weight and the heat of him, I almost died underneath another man tonight, and my muscles lock up at the memory. My adrenaline-soaked brain does another swing—this time to panic.

Maybe he won’t notice how fast I’m breathing. Maybe we can keep going.

He notices, of course.

“Sweetheart, god.” He rolls off me with one of those fluid motions I must’ve been blind not to see back in the Dr. Bore days. “Did I hurt you? Is this not what you⁠—”

I press my fingers to his lips to shush him, then yank them back when I see the bloodstains on them.

Look what I brought into his bed.

“I’m covered in him.” I scrub my fingers against my shirt. “He’s all over me, and I’m getting it all over you. And Cosmo!”

I glance around, finding the little dog midleap to the floor. At least he’s smart enough not to want any part of this.

“All I do is traumatize him,” I conclude miserably.

Hugo starts to reach for me, then lets his hands fall.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen.” His eyes are calm and steady on mine, and his psychologist’s voice starts to slow my racing pulse. “I’m going to start the shower, and you’re going to use every product in there to get yourself as clean as you need to be. You’re also not going to ask why I have the brands of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, razor, and shaving cream you prefer.”

My thoughts slow down in sync with my heart rate. I know that last part should upset me, but right now, all I feel is gratitude that he’s taking care of me.

“I need to call your sister, and I have some business with Pell to take care of,” he says. “So I’ll leave you alone to shower, and when you’re done, we can talk or you can sleep. If you want, I’ll even drive you home.”

He practically chokes on the last word, but all I can do is nod in slow motion. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He lifts my hands and presses a kiss to the backs of each one, then stands and leads me to the bathroom. He sits me down on a teak bench against the wall while he starts the water, adjusts the lights to a lower setting, and pulls at least a dozen fluffy towels from a cabinet.

I know I should be teasing him about the bench—Why, Dr. Mohr, what do you get up to in here that you need to be seated on this curved little number?—but I can’t push the words out.

He stretches his fingers under the spray to test the temperature, and that’s when I notice what he’s wearing: black murder pants, white T-shirt, tan cardigan. He’s every version of himself I’ve known all at once.