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“H-hello?” She sounds weird.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just not feeling great.”

“I’ll be there in five. Can I stop to bring you anything?”

“You know, I think I’m just going to…sleep,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “This isn’t a great night for you to come over.”

I stare at the road ahead since she’s on speaker phone.

This isn’t like her.

Something isn’t right.

And I’ll be damned if I let her blow me off.

“I’ll be there in five,” I say.

Then I disconnect.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Luna

Fuckety-fuck.

I’m an absolute disaster, and of course, Rage couldn’t possibly listen to me and just go home. I hoped he would stay in Los Angeles tonight, but no. The big, sexy lug had to rush back here. To me.

Well, he’s in for a big disappointment tonight.

I stare at myself in the mirror and nearly shudder at the sight looking back at me. I am truly a mess right now. My hair is sticking up, my face is blotchy and red from crying, and I’m wearing the most hideous old sweatshirt. It actually has holes in it, and the collar is so worn it falls off one shoulder. That might be sexy under any other circumstances, but not the way I feel right now.

I manage to pull a comb through my hair and put it in a ponytail. I brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face but that’s all the effort I’m going to put into how I look. I’m too tired and sad and frustrated to worry about how I look.

Even if the world’s sexiest man is coming over expecting to get horizontal.

Ugh.

I pad back into the living room, where I’ve been camped out all night, and stare at the chaos on the coffee table and the floor. Tissues. Pain meds. The heating pad. One empty bag of chips on the floor and a half-eaten bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups on the table. I’m not even going to pretend I care about my diet or my weight tonight.

I just don’t have it in me.

And exactly five minutes after Rage hung up, I hear his knock on the door. I know it’s him not just because I have the security feed up on my phone, but also because he knocks with intent—he’s not going away until I open up. No matter what I say. So I pad over there, disarm the alarm, and turn the locks.

I take a small, shuddery breath and then open the door.

He’s standing there like a veritable hunk in muscle-bound armor, and I blink, suddenly on the verge of tears yet again.

“Don’t cry, princess—I’m here.”

Without waiting for me to say a word, he reaches out and engulfs me in his arms.

And I let him.

I burrow into his shoulder, holding back a sob.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” He backs us into the apartment and kicks off his shoes. Then he scoops me up and carries me to the couch. If he notices the mess, the half-empty soda, or the crumpled tissues, he doesn’t say a word. He merely sinks down, with me in his lap, and holds me tight.