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I should’ve kept quiet in the first place. I shouldn’t have told Xander anything.

I step fully into the room and start shutting the door behind me, but Jacques stops me with a hand on the wood.

“I know you don’t want to talk right now, but if you do… I’ll be in the office building.”

I thank him quietly and shut the door.

They’re so alike. Both wearing that hard exterior but so caring underneath. So much so that it makes it difficult for me to trust Jacques too…

What if he’s exactly like the rest of them?

I don’t want to believe that. However, with everything that’s taken place in the last forty-eight hours, I have to keep my guard up.

Turning, I inhale and purse my lips, trying desperately to keep my shit together.

I’m not about to start crying over another man.

But fucking dammit. The scent of him in this room. The pristine cleanliness. The discarded sketchbook on the desk…

I squeeze my eyes shut, and the dam breaks.

I was stupid.

Stupid to trust.

Stupid to fall.

Stupid not to run.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sliding my back down the door, I curl into a ball against it.

Xander hurt me. But what hurt the most was having to run from him.

I found refuge in his arms, and he shattered it with a single box of lies.

I unfold myself from the floor, grab a fresh change of clothes, then numbly carry myself to the bathroom.

Everything is a blur. I don’t remember stepping into the shower, getting out of it, or putting clothes on.

But I’m in Xander’s bed. And it feels like home.

I gasp, shooting upright in bed, enveloped in complete darkness.

And for a moment, I forget where I am. Until that familiar smell settles me.

I rub my face in my hands. It’s completely pitch black outside. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but my head is pounding, and my body aches.

I don’t move for a while. I just sit here on his bed. Blank. Numb.

Peeling out of bed is a difficult task when all I want to do is sleep the rest of this nightmare off. Maybe I’ll wake up, and Xander will be next to me, holding me safe in his arms, and this will all be one big nightmare.

I open the bedside drawer, finding exactly what I’m looking for. A pistol, right in the middle of the otherwise empty drawer.

I don’t know why I’m doing this, but it’s like I’m being carried there on instinct.

I weave my way through the mansion corridors—clutching the weapon in my fist—towards the basement.