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My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. I don’t exist right now; I’m not here.

I need to put distance between myself and Camila, but my feet won’t move. They’re glued to this white gravel, everything in me pulling at me to go back.

But I can’t.

Not with that look on her face. Not with everything I've done.

Bringing air into my lungs, I turn towards the entrance of the mansion, not expecting to see Camila standing there behind the door, cuddling herself. Her eyes pierce right into me, and everything that I should’ve done—or not done—slams into me like a steam train.

We’re locked onto each other’s gazes for what feels like a lifetime. A lifetime of what we could’ve had.

She rapidly blinks away and turns, dragging herself up the grand staircase.

A growl of frustration leaves my throat. Facing back towards the gate, I slide the t-shirt off me, exposing my bare chest to the rain as I drag in anguished breaths.

Losing her feels like this. Like drowning with your head above the water. Knowing you can breathe but not being able to.

Throwing the wet material down on the ground, I pull out my phone.

One missed call from Jacques.

I shake my head. Not only am I losing Camila, but I’m also losing my best friend and brother in the process.

Scrolling through my contacts, I dial Nova.

She picks up after just one ring.

“I was wondering when I’d expect a call from you,” she purrs down the line.

I roll my eyes. How much cockier can she get?

“Do you know where he is?” Straight to the point.

“Luckily for you, we just traced his phone. He’s on the move, but you can try.”

“Just tell me where.”

“There’s a security door under London Bridge. Tell them your name; they’ll know who you are.”

Without responding, I hang up.

My feet move, heading straight for London Bridge in the cold, wet rain. No t-shirt, no weapons, and nothing else to lose.

Obsidian is soaked as he relaxes in my arms. I had Ezra let me take him before I sent him back to the mansion, making sure he watches over Camila. He was stubborn about it, but he knows it’s futile arguing with me.

“Xander Warren,” I state through the doorbell camera. The warm yellow lighting of London illuminates the metal door just enough to see it.

The door whirrs and clicks.

“She’s been expecting you.” Axel’s smug face comes into view as the door opens.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth, refraining from socking him in the face.

“What black magic did you use to turn Camila into a cat?” he laughs.

Oh, you motherfucker—

“Is money that low that you can't afford a t-shirt either?” he mocks.