I shut her out. I shut out the world.

Who I have always been—a revenge machine—she’s eaten away. Forcing me to change, forcing me to feel things I don’t know how to feel, things that shouldn’t exist to me, things I shouldn’t be capable of.

I debate moving out so many times one day, I’m driving halfway across town with all my stuff in my truck before I turn back.

Why do I turn around?

It’s not for money, it’s not for revenge. It’s for this pull in my gut. Even though I don’t want to see her, I’m devastated by the thought of leaving her.

I never want to touch her again, but the thought of never feeling her skin makes me want to swear my life to her. If I had a heart, it’s replaced with terror. But I’d rather cut out my heart so that I can bear it than separate myself from her.

For two days, I leave the condo at night before she gets home from work. I come back after she’s gone to bed, and I lock my bedroom door to make sure she can’t come in. Though why she would come in, I don’t know. It’s a wonder she hasn’t kicked me out.

The look on her face when she crawled away from me—there was nothing pleasurable about the kind of fear transforming her face.

I wait each morning for the front door to close behind her before I leave my bedroom.

I’m a coward and I know it. But I’d rather avoid her than have to see her and be reminded of what she did to me, of how she raked me open and stole every piece of myself I’ve spent my life building.

Inside her, there was no beginning and no end, it was endless and terrifying.

It’s day three of my hibernation from her. I emerge from my cave a different animal, a new species, one whose first urge is no longer to hunt but to feel.

I can’t name this thing, this word that I’ve heard but never understood. If love exists, we do not belong together, it and me. It’s not just a thing out of reach, it’s an unbreachable stronghold, a fortress built against me.

Fate decided long ago I shouldn’t have it, and so I don’t need it to survive. Hatred, anger, those are my friends, with pain and sorrow their weaker cousins. But the unattainable love—for me to even think it—is a lie.

After the door closes and she’s left for work, I head toward the kitchen and open the fridge, not bothering with pants or a shirt.

The only communication we have—the leftovers I leave her for dinner.

She ate what I made her last night.

“I’d appreciate it if you put on some clothes.”

My spine cements. It’s her voice. I don’t want to hear it, yet I yearn for it so much I must be imagining it.

I heard her leave.

I close the fridge and see her sitting in the far corner, stiff and unmoving in a chair.

I swallow. “You left.”

“I made you think I left.”

My feet adhere to the floor. If I was able to walk, it was before I saw her.

I always thought she was good looking. But her softness, her attractive features annoyed me. It was inconvenient. Her hair so blond it’s golden. Her eyes so blue, they’re gemstones.

Now she’s . . . she’s . . .

I can’t look. I stare at my feet and trudge back to my room. “I’m putting on clothes.” And maybe some armor. Or blinders.

She’s so fucking beautiful, I can’t remember how to breathe.

* * *

I’m glad I was sitting. I would’ve had to from looking at him.

It’s only his body that makes me stare. It has nothing to do with how I haven’t been able to take a step or a breath without feeling him like he’s still moving over my skin. It’s his muscles that overwhelm me, not him.

His chest and arms—he must do push-ups or something because his muscles look sculpted. Like someone drew lines, took a chisel and . . . It makes me want to trace them, take him inside of me and never let him go

I shake him from my head. I have to focus.

Nothing can get me up from this chair, and when he comes back with clothes on, he will not be getting any closer to me than the far side of the coffee table. It doesn’t matter how much seeing him makes me pine for more of what . . .

I cover my face.

. . . what’s warped my mind into something I don’t want to be. Craving him is making me vulnerable, my body listening to a man who has no other design on me than to wreck my life.

I can’t allow it.

I have to quit him.

But I can’t get rid of him until he gets the money.

The hospital is too important to risk losing funding if he exposes my father’s crimes.

His footsteps sound in the hall.

I straighten my back and compose my face. I can do this without looking like I’m desperate for him to jump me.

He stops, stands, and stares.

My defenses that I thought were solid against him disintegrate, and it’s not how he looks. It’s how he’s looking at me. The difference from two weeks ago—I’m dazed.

He tries to mask it and fails. Gone is the brutal gaze from his days of stalking me. What’s in its place is no less terrifying.

His stare still has an owning quality. I’m incapable of not being possessed by his eyes. The new part, the part where he looks at me like I light the sky and bring the storms and cause the tides to roll, that part make me want to run and scream.

I thought I was afraid of him before.

That was before.

“Did you have something to say?” His voice is light, gentle, as terrifying as his look. The only comfort is the awkwardness in his stance. He’s as discomfited by the changes as I am.

If I had something I needed to talk to him about, I can’t remember. The change in him, as the initial terror of my reaction wanes, thaws all the places I’ve been hardening. It filters through my veins and produces an instinctive response.

Against all my previous resolve, I walk to him. My arms and my chest ache with emptiness, and I do the only thing I can do to ease it.

I shouldn’t. For both our sakes, I should stop this. It’s not real. It can’t be real. It’s only going to hurt us.

But I can no more stop myself than I can keep my heart from beating.

I slip my arms around him and hug him.

* * *

I think she might have killed me.

My heart slams so fiercely, her ear that’s pressed to my chest must be bouncing. She is all the softness that I have never been and never had. I resist touching her and stare down at her hugging me, feeling her arms wrapped around me.

The top of her golden head, her fine hair pulled back in a ponytail, the little sigh she makes as she holds me tighter. I sift my fingers through her hair and stroke her head. It’s precious—that she’s hugging me. I remember getting hugs, before my sister died. I’d forgotten what they were like.

I run my hand over her back, and she nuzzles into me. Inch by inch, I slide my arms around her. Her ribs lift and descend with each breath, and I feel it with my palms. Her heart beats, and I feel it against my chest. The urge to squeeze her, to wrap her against me, is so strong, I’m afraid I’ll break her.

“Tighter,” she whispers.

My eyes fall closed in relief, and I do as she asks and as I want—I hold her as tight as I can. It warms my heart so much it’s like she’s reached inside me. It’s thrilling and liberating. And scary as a trip to hell. How is this possible? How did this happen? When did I start to feel things for this person in my arms that I never thought I was capable of?

My lips in her hair, I murmur, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

I hold her, feeling her breathe against me, wondering in her allowing me to feel her against me. “What’s happening to us?”

She shakes her head and burrows her face in my shirt. “Let’s not analyze it.” She backs away and, holding my hand, leads me to the couch. “Sit with me.”

I do, and it’s so easy, sitting next to her, her hand in mine. “Is this what normal people do?”

She laughs, and I’m transfixed by the sound. “Yeah,” she says. “Normal people sit and hold hands.”

“I didn’t think I could do that.”

She smiles. “I didn’t think you could either.”

The usual pull is still there, to peel away her clothes and bury myself inside her, but I couldn’t take it now. Just touching her hand is overwhelming me.

I stare at her face, which is glowing, no trace of the fear and anguish I’ve seen so much. There’s a new relaxation, a calm. She takes a deep breath. “I know tomorrow’s the day I was supposed to get you the money.”

The words jumble in my head. Money? That’s right. I’m supposed to care about that. I don’t anymore.

She goes on, “If by Monday Blake still won’t fork it over, I’ll hire another lawyer to get it from him. He’ll have to cave then. Is that okay?”

I stare at her hands, not knowing what to say.

She’s so quiet, I hear her breathing. Her fingers caress my cheek and urge me to look at her. “I don’t think I can give you all of it. But I’ll give you some of it, which is the least I should do. For everything that’s happened.”

I want to tell her it doesn’t matter. To tell her I don’t want her money. I want other things from her now, and not the revenge kind of things. The things that grow the new warmth in my chest, I know she feels it too.

But it sticks in my throat, and she speaks before I can. “I need you tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“The fundraiser.”

“Is that some sort of fancy party?”

She nods. “Blake is going and bringing Layla as his date.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She squeezes my hand. “I know.”

“Has he been bothering you?”

Her head falls back against the couch. “Nonstop. Messages, phone calls, showing up at my work.”

“Have you told Layla?”

She shakes her head. “I had lunch with her. But I still haven’t told her.”

I’m worried Penny hasn’t talked about it yet. It was what I wanted: Penny isolated from everyone. But now, the idea of her not having the help of her friends, I can’t fathom it. She deserves better. “You should talk to her.”

“What do I have to say?”

I don’t blame her for not wanting to tell anyone about her father, but she can’t lose her friends. “You have to tell her. Don’t be like me. Don’t bear this alone.”

She doesn’t respond, just stares at my hand.

I brush her cheek. “You need the support of your friends, Penny. Just me isn’t enough.”