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The elevator dings. And my heart stutters. Because we’re here and there’s no turning back. I barely take a step into his apartment when I hear it.

FORTY-FIVE

Sierra

“What the fuck, Sierra?” His voice cuts through the space like a blade—sharp, furious. He hasn’t even stepped out of the damn elevator.

I spin around, hands on my hips, my expression burning with the fury that’s been bubbling in my chest since he dragged me out of that club like he owned me.

He needs to see it.

He needs to know just how pissed off I am.

But I don’t even get a word out before he charges forward, his voice escalating—loud, rough, cracking under the weight of everything he’s been holding in.

“First, I find you in another man’s apartment, half-naked—“ His arms fly out, like he physically can’t contain the image. “—and now you’re in a damn club, dancing like that with a friend of mine? What the hell is this? You trying to drive me insane?”

The words snap something inside me. I can’t hold back anymore. And I don’t want to.

I take two quick steps toward him, rage tightening every inch of my body like wire pulled too tight.

My voice drops—low, clipped, cutting.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Nickolas?”

He recoils like I slapped him.

“Me? What’s wrong with me?” He practically roars, stepping forward—jaw locked, eyes blazing. His voice cracking at the edges.

“Yeah. You. Who the fuck else?” I throw my hands up, pacing a few steps before turning my back to him for a second, trying—and failing—to calm myself.

But the heat is too much. The hurt. The confusion. The fucking love that won’t leave me alone.

So I spin back around, fire lighting my voice, venom bleeding through every word.

“Tell me, why did you bring me here?”

I gesture around the apartment like it’s some kind of damn crime scene, like the walls themselves have witnessed too much.

“What do you want from me, Nick? Huh? How do you want me? Naked again? Maybe on my knees?”

I point toward the kitchen island, my heart pounding, my voice dry with rage.

“Right here? Or maybe the couch would do.”

I start walking toward it, bitterness choking me like smoke.

“Though maybe this time, you should just pay me. Since you fuck me like a whore and then try to send me home like one.”

He flinches. Not just emotionally—visibly.

His entire body jolts like I just punched him in the gut. His fists clench at his sides. His jaw goes rigid.

The heat between us cracks again.

And then his voice—low, deadly, shaking with rage.

“What the fuck did you just say?”