Page 19

But I was stalling.

The thought of going back to my cabin sent a spike of anxiety through me. Not because I didn’t want Lila there. Because I was scared she wouldn’t be. That I’d walk in the door and find out it was all a fever dream. That none of it—Lila in my home, Lila in my bed—was real.

When I couldn’t stand another second of wondering, I finally turned toward home.

The light was on.

My breath left me in a whoosh.

The light was on.

My wife was here. It was real, the bad and the good. I hated that she was only here because someone had hurt her, and that once I rectified that, she’d be out of my life again in the blink of an eye.

I didn’t deserve a second chance with her. Hell, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d screw it up exactly like I had before. The things I carried were too heavy to burden her with.

I didn’t have forever with her, but she was here now. I would take every moment I could with her.

The door wasn’t locked—we were going to have a talk about that—and it creaked when I pushed it open. There was no sign of her in the living room or kitchen. I moved down the hallway, noting the light under the bathroom door, and turned to the bedroom.

A low sob stopped me in my tracks.

I froze in the doorway, not breathing, as I tilted my head and listened. There it was again.

Lila was crying.

8

LILA

“Lila!” Seb’s frantic pounding on the bathroom door made the whole room quake. “Are you okay? Talk to me, baby.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Tears and snot and that fucking stab wound in my ribs had all conspired against me. I couldn’t breathe, much less speak. I gulped back a sob and wheezed.

“Unlock this goddamn door, or I’ll break it down.”

He would, too. Seb didn’t make idle threats. With another snotty sob, I shuffled forward on my knees, unlocked the door with a quiet click, and shuffled back again.

There was a pause, and then the knob twisted, the door slowly opened halfway, and Seb peered cautiously into the room. One look at me curled up on the floor, and the door swung so hard it bounced off the wall.

“Lila, baby.” He dropped down next to me and tugged at the towel I clutched to my chest for dignity’s sake—seriously, why did I bother—trying to get a look at my bandaged ribs. “Are you hurt? Show me.”

I held on tight, not because of my wound, but because I wasn’t wearing a shirt. Or a bra. Or pants. “It’s—” I gasped for breath and finally pulled in enough air to wail, “It’s my hair!”

He rocked back. “Your hair? Your fucking hair, Lila?”

My eyes narrowed. Punching him right in the throat would probably rip my stitches open, but it might be worth it.

My relationship with my hair had always been…complicated. When it was good, it was very good. I loved the red-gold color that glowed like the heart of a ripe peach when the sun hit it just right. The wild curls that announced my personality before I said a single word. My hair was my identity for better or worse.

Right now, it was definitely worse.

Because right now, the rat’s nest on top of my head screamed, This is the hair of a woman falling apart!

The rat’s nest on top of my head was correct. My life was falling apart. I had been slapped, burned, and stabbed, and now I was sharing a cabin with my ex-husband, and there was only one bed. I had no idea who was trying to kill me. I had no idea when I could go home again. I had no idea how I was going to survive the man kneeling in front of me.

The enormity of all of that had reduced me to the snotty, teary mess of a woman sobbing on the bathroom floor. But mostly I was crying because I couldn’t even wash my own hair. It hurt too much.

For a long moment, Seb said nothing as he considered me. It had been a solid week since I had washed my hair. I hadn’t slept in my silk bonnet since I’d been stabbed. All of which meant my hair was somehow both greasy and frizzy, limp and tangled.