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I do the only thing I can think of: I turn and run.

I lock the door behind me when I get home but find myself standing in the dark entryway for too long. My eyes rove over all the changes she’s done; fuck, even the faint smell of paint still hangs in the air. All of it is her. This place was sterile before; now she’s in everything and I’ll never recover.

That old panic claws its way up my spine, anxious and familiar. The part of me that learned early not to get comfortable, not to need too much, not to believe promises . . . it’s all at the surface again, pointing and laughing at me for being so fucking stupid in thinking this was any different.

This is why I haven’t let myself get attached in the past, why I set boundaries and kept them, because the second someone starts to matter, that’s when they’re close enough to do real damage. I’ve tried telling myself this isn’t abandonment, it’s a consequence, that it’s different, but when she’s gone, my mind can’t tell the difference.

The fear on her face in that motel room keeps hitting me: the instant she understood what I’d done, when she realized I wasn’t the man she thought I was. The worst part? She’s right. Tonight I showed her exactly who I am, and she was fucking repulsed.

I left the wet suit in the motel room to be disposed of with everything else. I brought home the mask, though I don’t know why. I want some memento from the night we stopped fighting the undeniable pull between us. My mind spends time in the happy memory, reliving every minute of it, before I’m forced to return to reality. I trudge toward the bathroom to take a shower.

Hot water covers my skin in angry red splotches. I stare at the bottle of shampoo I bought for Anna to keep here, the same one she uses at her apartment. I punish myself, using it, just so I can smell her on me, probably for the last time.

After, I scrub every inch of myself with soap until my flesh is raw, then repeat it until I can no longer smell death on me. I keep scouring, like if I keep going, I’ll be able to wash off the image of her backing away from me, wide-eyed and afraid.

Don’t come near me. Don’t follow me.

I brace a hand against the tile wall, letting the water pelt me in the back of the neck.

Fuck.

By the time I get out, the room is full of steam and the house is silent. I yank on a pair of sweats, scrub a towel over my hair, and check my phone, hoping for a text or voicemail, even one that says she hates me and never wants to see me again. I’ll take any form of communication from her, even pissed off and furious—especially pissed off and furious. Severing all contact feels so . . . final. Hopeless.

I’m halfway to crawling into bed when there’s a pound at the door.

I peek out the window but don’t see red and blue lights flashing.

My whole body goes alert—it must be Anna. She changed her mind. She’s here, livid, crying, ready to fight, and I’m flooded with relief as I bolt toward the door. I yank it open with my heart in my throat, prepared to take every ounce of fury she has packed in that beautiful body of hers.

It’s not Anna.

Rhys stands on my porch, looking like vengeance in human form. Sounds about right. We stare at each other for a beat.

“I warned you I’d kick your ass if you hurt her.” Before I can even answer, he steps inside, kicking the door shut, and swings. The punch catches me across the jaw and my head snaps sideways. Christ. Pain radiates through me. I stumble back a step, tasting blood. I deserved that.

Fair is fair. I don’t even put my arms up to block him.

It’s almost as if my lack of defense pisses him off more. He shoves at my chest, knocking me into the wall behind me, next to the new entry table Anna purchased. It’s hard enough to rattle the dish holding my keys.

“What the fuck did you do?” he demands; his voice is enraged but it also sounds almost fearful, protective, and panicked. He doesn’t know—she didn’t tell him.

“What did you do to her?”

The vision of her tears is bad enough to allow him to hit me again, so I let him.

He doesn’t get in a clean punch this time, more of a savage shove. He’s pissed, yeah, but based on his voice, he wants answers more than he wants to throw another fist.

Why wouldn’t she tell him?

Of course—she doesn’t want the cops to know. If there’s any part of her that’s relieved those men are dead, then I can walk away. It’ll hurt like hell, but I’ll do it knowing she’s safe.

Rhys doesn’t know anything.

He goes in for another hit and I bat his hand away, stepping into his space so quickly it forces him to take a half step back. “How much do you actually know about what she’s been through?” I snap.

His face immediately switches from rage to confusion. “What?”

“Do you know she didn’t relapse?”