The detective I speak to is a balding man in his fifties with a bulky physique and steady eyes. He hears me out, taking occasional notes on a yellow pad of paper.

He doesn’t say it outright, but by the end of the interview, it’s clear he thinks I’m batshit crazy. Not an hour after I arrive, I leave, my stomach sour with disappointment and bad coffee.

In the parking lot, a niggling suspicion makes me call Veritas. An associate answers, and I ask to speak with our manager. Lucille picks up the line a few moments later.

“Eden?” she asks in surprise. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to make sure I’m still on the schedule this week.”

There’s a long pause. “I’m confused. Shouldn’t you be on your way to Oregon? How’s your dad doing, by the way?”

My fingers clench on the phone. “Good. He’s, uh… doing fine. So my shifts are all covered?”

“Ohh, I get it, you couldn’t help being your responsible self. Seriously, Eden, don’t worry about a thing back here. Focus on driving safely and being with your family. We’re all so sorry about the accident.”

“The accident,” I echo.

She hums in sympathy. “Your final check should have gone through direct deposit today. Let me know if you don’t see it. And if you ever decide to move back our way, please give us a ring. You’ll always have a position here at Veritas.”

“Thanks, Lucille,” I force out. “Take care.”

I hang up and toss my phone on the passenger seat, then pound the steering wheel with both hands. Not until the pain overcomes my misery do I let my arms fall to my sides.

When my former professor explained to me why I craved sexual submission, he told me foremost about the difference between surrender and defeat.

Surrender, he’d said, was an active choice; it didn’t diminish an individual’s power because the choice itself was a powerful one. At his hands and at Liam’s, I’ve experienced the ecstatic sweetness of surrender.

And now I know the difference.

I know defeat.

* * *

I head north on the I-5, through Van Nuys and into the San Fernando Valley. I don’t turn on the radio. I don’t look at my phone when it buzzes repeatedly. I just drive. I’m not running; at least, not consciously. But I also can’t seem to make myself turn around.

When the sky begins to darken, I take an exit in Bakersfield to fill my gas tank. I don’t know what I’m doing. Where I’m going. I can’t think straight. Can’t even remember the last time I ate. Was it the Thai food yesterday?

Was that only yesterday?

At the gas station, I use my credit card at the pump, then head into the attached minimart for coffee and a snack I probably won’t eat. While paying for my purchase, I glance outside just as a car pulls into the station and parks at the pump behind mine.

It’s a black sedan. Middle-grade, no distinguishing features. A single figure occupies the driver’s seat. I wait for the person to exit the car, but they don’t.

“Miss, are you all right?”

I blink at the cashier, an older woman with tired eyes. Feet shuffle impatiently behind me.

“Yes, sorry.” I scrawl my signature on the little screen, press the green button, and grab my items. “Don’t need a receipt, thanks.”

When I push through the doors, hot, dense air pushes back. Wind whips my hair up and around my face.

The occupant of the sedan is now standing against the hood, arms crossed over his chest. My palms dampen with sweat as I realize that he isn’t pumping gas, just standing there.

Waiting.

You’d better hope I find you before Maddoc does.

Liam’s words ring in my ears like a prophecy. My heart races. He was right—this isn’t the movies. This is real. This is my life.

And I’ll be damned if I’m going to give it up without a fight.

I stalk toward the man, who turns his head as I approach. I don’t recognize him. Blond hair, classically handsome, wearing a navy polo and jeans that fit his muscled form like a glove. Colorful tattoos run the length of both arms.

“Are you following me?” I demand.

He doesn’t insult me by pretending surprise, merely uncrosses his arms and reaches up to remove dark sunglasses. His eyes are greenish brown and surprisingly warm.

That doesn’t mean anything.

“Hello, Eden,” he says, offering a hand. “My name is Chris Daley.”

His voice is like his eyes—warm and deep—but I barely notice. What I do notice is his accent, it’s lilting, musical cadence.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

Chris lowers his hand. “Do you have a preference?”

“What?”

He shrugs, a smile playing on his lips. “A preference, lass. Would you be more relieved if I was a messenger of your father or Liam?”

Staring at him, I come to a profound conclusion.

“I’m losing my mind.”

Chris merely nods. “I’m sure it feels that way. Been there once or twice myself. Why don’t you gather what you need from the car and come with me. I’ll answer your questions on our way home.”

I laugh. “L.A. isn’t my home, asshole.”

“Ach. You’ve got a tongue, haven’t ya?” He grins, but his eyes aren’t warm anymore. They’re dark and cold. “We can do this the hard way, if necessary.”

Tires squeal behind me and a car door slams. I recognize the measured pace of expensive shoes on the asphalt, and I’m not ashamed of the relief that cascades through me.

“Get gone, Christopher,” growls Liam.

“Allo, Liam. Been a while.”

Liam scoffs and takes my arm. I don’t resist as he pulls me to the passenger side of his car. When I’m inside, he hisses, “Don’t move,” and closes the door.

I watch him walk back toward Chris. Standing face-to-face, the two men are of equal height. Chris is a little bulkier. If I didn’t know Liam, I might bet on the wrong man in a fight.

But I know Liam.

Whatever he says makes Chris laugh and bring his hands up. He backs away, his grin opposed by Liam’s scowl, and gets into his car. Then, with a jaunty wave in my direction, he speeds out of the gas station.

Liam opens the driver’s door of my car and bends inside. When he stands, he has my cellphone and purse. Whatever emotion he displayed in his conversation with Chris is gone. The man who walks toward me is control personified.

He gets in the car, tosses me my belongings, and turns the key in the ignition. All without looking at or speaking to me. The part of me that still loves him—or loves what he gives me—wants to apologize, but the rest of me is disgusted by the thought.

“This isn’t fair,” I say through clenched teeth.

He says nothing.

It’s a long, silent drive back to Hollywood.