Chapter 17

Michael

“Stella!” I call, rushing inside. “Stella?”

I’m hoping. God, I can’t help myself.

I’m hoping that she’ll just raise that gorgeous face up from the back of the couch and say, Hey, sweetie. What took you so long?

But the apartment is silent and cold.

She’s gone.

I grip the kitchen counter for a second, feeling the pain in my knuckles. I’ve never felt like this before. I used to laugh at men in power who got emotional under pressure. Now here I am—an absolute fucking wreck.

I knew something was wrong the moment I got out of surgery.

And now here it is. Black fucking cloud hanging over my entire fucking house.

In a blind rage, I clench my fists and lash out. Some hand-carved wooden fertility statues from Africa go flying as my fist connects with the wall.

Scratch that.

It goes through the wall.

My knuckles are bleeding. My swing grazed the bookshelf, and now I’ve got shards of wood in my hand.

“Shit,” I mutter, knowing this won’t make surgery fun tomorrow. What a goddamn stupid thing to do! I’ve never lost it like this before…but Stella.

Stella’s the kind of woman worth losing it over.

And now I’ve lost her.

I move over to the sink, gritting my teeth as I pick the splinters out of my knuckles.

Perfect control. Cold as ice fucking doctor. Wincing at the sink with a wrecked hand and an empty bed.

I have to admit it to myself: I’ve never loved anyone before. Not like this. Not ever.

Not like she’s the air I breathe and the only comfort I know in this world.

I shake off the sentimental shit and run my knuckles beneath cold water from the tap.

That’s the great thing about training—it kicks in when you can’t think for yourself. Some of these splinters are pretty big. Might need stitches.

I know how to stitch myself up, at least.

As my hand is soaking, I carefully pull out the splinters. They’re thick, and some over an inch long—I really pulverized that fucking shelf.

Still, even though these wounds aren’t serious, I may have a few micro-fractures. Even if it is just superficial damage, if any of this gets infected, I’ll be out of surgery for a while.

I’d have plenty of time for Stella then.

If she was still fucking here, anyway.

I look up to the ceiling and feel that horrid bunch in my stomach again. Just one more reason why I’m not good enough for her: no self-control. Can’t keep my dick in my pants, can’t keep control of my goddamn fists.

Should have married her first. Bought her as a bride—should have made her one, too.

I dry my hand off with paper towels, looking for a bandage. My mind keeps working methodically and carefully as it always does, solving the problem.

But underneath, I’m seething with self-loathing. I’m getting angrier and angrier—not at Stella, but at myself.

I should have been there when she woke up this morning. Why did I think the perfect woman, the only one who could meet my standards, should sit around like a pretty doll on a shelf?

I should have woken her, taken her with me. I could set her up in a nice café or something to wait for me, sent her to an art museum or given her my black card. Anything instead of just ditching her like a one-night stand.

I’m steadily applying bandages. It hurts, I guess, but at least the entire hand isn’t fucked.

But what does it matter? I’m fucked, my heart is fucked, everything is fucked.

My hand feels kind of irrelevant by comparison.

I have a nip of scotch and take it over to the couch where I collapse for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

I want to go after her. I want to get her back. I want to track her down, wherever she’s gone.

I want to spend every last moment hunting for her just to see her one last time.

But for the first time in my life I am self-aware. I know doing that would be for me, not for her benefit.

This is the moment I decide I’m a changed man.

I’m not going to chase down this gorgeous angel and tear her life apart, trying to make her love me. I shouldn’t have bought her in the first place. I shouldn’t have expected her to stay.

No. She deserves to be free, to be spoiled every second of her life. She deserves someone who will be there and who will cherish her the way she deserves.

She did the right thing. She left. Now I have to do the right thing and let her go.

I bow my head, and I finish my drink.

But then, as I stand up I catch a scent. Iron. Tangy. Like the ER on a bad night.

Blood.

Not mine. I’m all cleaned up, the rags all thrown away. Force of habit. So where can it be coming from?

Feeling a hard anger starting to build inside me, I head down the hall.

Fuck. There!

A dark smear. It’s not a lot of blood, but it’s there: a dark smear across the wall and floor.

Someone got hurt here.

My Stella got hurt here.

I inhale again.

No. On second thought…doesn’t smell like her.

I don’t know who else was here in my house…but that’s not Stella’s blood.

My mind’s racing to try and piece it all together, but if there’s one conclusion I’m comfortable to come to…

It’s the one that will give me a little hope.

She didn’t go. She didn’t leave me.

She was taken.

Kidnapped. Fucking kidnapped again.

Stella does seem to have a penchant for that. But this time…I look at the dark stain again. This time, she made the fucker bleed for his efforts.

The rage within me is like an animal. My mind isn’t clouded. I’m totally clear.

I snap out my phone as I bolt for the door. It’s time to call in every favor I have coming to me. Once I do, I’m going to find this motherfucker, and I’m going to destroy him.

Then, I’m going to get my girl back.