Ella expected him to come after her. Every day she expected a limo to turn up outside the door of her parents’ apartment, and for him to be inside waiting for her. Because he had to know where she’d gone. She had nowhere else to go after all, and she’d made no effort to hide where she’d escaped to.

But the days went by with no long black car waiting outside her door. No tall figure standing on the steps knocking and demanding to be let in.

No texts. No calls. No emails.

And after the first week went by with no contact, she began to understand that he wasn’t coming for her after all.

He’d told her he’d never let her go, but apparently “never” didn’t mean what she thought it meant.

Apparently it didn’t cover her leaving.

At first she told herself she was glad, that she definitely didn’t want him to come after her. That she was better off without him. She couldn’t stand by watching him in obvious pain yet not being able to help him because he wouldn’t let her. It reminded her too much of her father brushing off her worried questions whenever she’d asked him if he was okay, being strong for her so she wouldn’t worry.

She hated the thought of the same thing happening with Rafe. But she didn’t ask herself why she hated it, why it hurt so very much.

She very carefully didn’t think about it.

Yet as the days went by and the constant ache in her heart didn’t get any better, she realized that far from being happy he wasn’t coming for her, she was in fact disappointed. Bitterly disappointed.

Which didn’t make any sense. He’d chased her and chased her, manipulated her—not to mention manipulating his own father in order to get guardianship over her. And once he had, he’d used that power to force her to open herself up to him both physically and emotionally. All the while giving her nothing in return. She shouldn’t want him to keep on chasing her, right?

Her mind tried to tell her that, in fact, he had given her things, but she didn’t want to listen to her mind. It was going to tell her something she didn’t want to hear, and she wasn’t ready for that.

Instead she went to her classes and rehearsals, to her practices, losing herself in dance during the day, while at night sitting in front of the television trying not to listen to the silence in the house or the loneliness in her heart.

“You’re only here because you’re too scared to be alone.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe that was the only reason she’d stayed with him. It sounded good in her head, but deep inside a small voice told her she was lying to herself.

The second week, she was gripped by a terrible fear that something had happened to him. That maybe after she’d gone, he’d cut himself again and that maybe he was in the hospital and that’s why he hadn’t come for her. Or worse, maybe he was dead.

The fear was so strong, she found herself grabbing her laptop and googling him, her fingers shaking on the keyboard as she typed in his name. There were many news stories about him, but the most recent one was a business article about a new deal DS Corp had signed with the military. A picture accompanied the article of him standing outside DS Corp surrounded by press—tall and powerful, very obviously alive.

The relief was as strong as the fear had been, and for long minutes she could only stare at his picture, trying to get her frantic breathing under control. He was okay. He was alive. He wasn’t dead in a morgue or unconscious in a hospital bed anywhere.

In picture he was smiling, the famous smile that charmed everyone he met. Handsome and charismatic, a powerful man at the height of career. Definitely not the man she’d seen sitting on the side of the tub that night in his apartment, knife in hand and blood slowly trickling down his wrist. The lines of his face had been drawn tight and he’d been pale, his eyes silver, all the blue gone. He hadn’t looked powerful then. He’d looked . . . vulnerable.

And you walked out on him.

Ella’s eyes prickled and she had to close the laptop before she burst into tears.

Of course she’d walked out. He’d told her to leave. He’d gotten angry and intimidated her. Said cruel things to her. Shouted in her face. It had been obvious that he hadn’t wanted her around, hadn’t wanted her to be there, so what was the point? She’d tried to help him and he hadn’t wanted her help. So what else was she supposed to do?

Come on, did you really try? Or did you use him as an excuse to run?

Ah, but those questions involved the thing she didn’t want to think about and so she shoved the laptop away and turned the TV on loud, drowning out the voice in her head.

The next day she visited Aurora in the private hospital Rafe had settled her in. It was a lovely place and Aurora’s room was on the ground floor with a view of the private garden, which Ella knew her grandmother liked.

Weak winter sunlight filled the room, making Aurora’s white hair on the pillow glow. She looked better than she had while Ella had been looking after her, which was a hard thing to admit, but it was true.

Aurora gave Ella a narrow look as she fussed with the flowers she’d brought, arranging them in a vase on the dresser by the windows.

“I don’t suppose you brought me any cigarettes?” It was always the first question she asked whenever Ella came to visit.

“No, of course I didn’t.” Ella tweaked one of the roses while giving her grandmother a long-suffering look. “You know the rules here.”

Aurora fiddled grumpily with her sheet. “Yes, yes. The nurses here are sadists.”

Ella turned her attention back to the roses, biting back a grin. It was all a front. Aurora loved both the place and the nurses, and they both knew it.

“You’re looking tired,” her grandmother commented after a moment. “Anything the matter?”

Damn. She’d thought her concealer had covered up the dark circles under her eyes.

Moving one of the sprays of gypsophila, she said, “No, I’m fine. Having a few issues sleeping, but nothing major.” She didn’t want to talk to Aurora about Rafe. She didn’t want to talk to anyone about Rafe.

“Hmmm.” Aurora sounded skeptical. “What about that young man of yours?”

The roses in Ella’s vision swam and it was a couple of seconds before she realized it was because her eyes were full of tears. She blinked fiercely, determined not to cry—and why the hell was she crying anyway? He wasn’t her “young man.” He wasn’t anyone’s young man.

“Oh, you mean Rafe?” She tried to make it casual. “Yeah, that didn’t work out.”

“What?” Aurora sounded genuinely puzzled. “But I thought you were happy? I mean, that’s what you told me a couple of weeks ago.”

Happy? She’d really told Aurora she was happy?

She tried to remember the last time she’d visited when she’d still been with Rafe. It had been a week or so earlier, the day before she’d left him in fact. She’d come to see Aurora after Rafe had decided that an impromptu winter picnic in Central Park was a great idea. There had been snow on the ground, so he’d cleaned off a park bench for her and they’d sat there with sandwiches and coffee still hot from the thermos and discussed travel and the places they’d wanted to go to. Rafe had been to Europe a lot in the course of his work, and he’d been telling her about Italy and how Rome was one of his favorite cities because of its history. They’d sat there for at least two hours, neither of them noticing the cold.

And when he had to go back to work, he’d dropped her off at the hospital, placing a kiss on the tip of her nose as she got out of the limo, smiling at her.

Yes, that had been a good day. And yes, she’d been happy.

Ella fiddled with another flower, swallowing against the pressing tightness in her throat. “Well, like I said, it didn’t work out.”

“Oh, stop fussing with the flowers and come and sit down,” Aurora said crossly. “I want to hear about it.”

“But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Bullshit,” the older woman muttered. “Come on, sweetheart. Sit down and tell your old grandmother what happened.”

It was the last thing in the world Ella wanted to do and yet she found herself sitting down on the bed with Aurora reaching out to take her hand, her grandmother’s dark eyes full of sympathy. And she realized she was crying.

“What did he do?” Aurora asked quietly. “Did he do something to you?”

Ella shook her head. She didn’t want to tell Aurora the specifics because that was Rafe’s story to tell, not hers. So all she said was, “No. It wasn’t anything like that. But . . . his childhood was terrible, Gran. And he suffered. And I think he’s still suffering, but he won’t talk to me about it. He won’t share anything with me about it. He won’t let me in.” She wiped away a tear. “I can’t stand by and watch him hurting while he holds me at a distance. I can’t.”

“Uh-huh.” Aurora patted her hand. “So he didn’t do anything specific then?”

“Oh, something happened and I tried to help him, but he wouldn’t let me. And he basically told me to get out.”

“So, what? You went?”

An odd defensiveness wound through her, though she had no idea why she should feel defensive. “He told me that he’d basically manipulated his father into signing over guardianship of me to him, just because he wanted me.”

Aurora frowned. “And?”

“Well, then he said some hurtful things.” Even as she said it, she knew it sounded . . . lame.

“Hurtful things,” Aurora echoed. “Uh-huh. And what else?”

Ella bit her lip. “He . . . yelled me at me. Told me to get out.”

“So you did.” There was no judgment in her grandmother’s eyes, and yet Ella felt oddly like crying again.

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked. “I tried to help him, but he didn’t want it. He was hurting, he was in so much pain and there was nothing I could do for him. “

Aurora shook her head. “Sweetheart, was it really the fact that he wouldn’t let you help? Or was it because you were too afraid?”

Ella blinked at her. “Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. All I know is that you were happy with him. You were happier than I’ve seen you since you lost your mom and dad. And now, all of a sudden, you’re leaving him because he wouldn’t talk to you about something. Seems like a nice excuse.”

The thing she didn’t want to think about twisted in her gut. “It’s not an excuse, Gran,” she said, trying to keep the defensive note out of her voice. “What would you do with a man who won’t let you help him?”

Aurora cocked her head to the side. “I guess that would all depend on how I felt about him.”

For some reason the statement hit Ella like a punch to the gut. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that if I loved him,” Aurora said gently, “wild horses couldn’t drag me away from him.”

“If I loved him . . .”

Yet again there were tears in her eyes and she didn’t know why. “He’s broken. He’s just . . . completely broken. I can’t fix him. I can’t help him. He won’t let me . . .”

Aurora’s dark eyes were very direct. “What are you so afraid of, Ella?”

Another punch, knocking all the air from her lungs. “I’m . . . not afraid,” she forced out. “I’m not.”

“Then what’s with all the excuses? Sure, he went about courting you all wrong and made a complete ass out of himself, but . . . he made you happy. Didn’t he?”

Ella looked away, taking her hand out from under Aurora’s and putting it in her own lap instead. Her heart was beating way too fast and way too loud, and there was something clenching like a fist in her chest.

Excuses. They weren’t excuses. Were they?

You know they are.

She took a shuddering breath. “I just . . . wish I could remember him, back from when I was a kid. I wish I remembered knowing him before . . . he got sent away.”

“Why would that make any difference?”

“Because then I’d know.” She groped for the words to explain. “Then I’d know if he was . . . a good person. Or just . . .”

Aurora made a scoffing sound. “I think that’s bullshit, Ella Hart. You don’t need to remember what he was like. You already know. But you’re not admitting it to yourself.”

The thing she didn’t want to acknowledge, an intense, desperate feeling that made her ache right down deep inside, twisted hard all of a sudden.

You do know how you feel about him. But you’re scared of it.

A tear dripped onto the back of her hand.

“He needs a lot, Gran,” she said thickly. “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid I’m not strong enough for him.”

Her grandmother sighed. “No, sweetheart. That’s not what you’re afraid of. You’re afraid of loving him.”

If her gran’s earlier words had been a punch, this was like a knife deep into her heart. She’d never thought about love, never even considered the possibility. Because love meant pain. Love meant loss. Love meant loneliness.

She didn’t want it. Just flat out didn’t.

And yet . . .

“I can’t.” Her voice was barely recognizable and she didn’t know who she was trying to tell, Aurora or herself. “I can’t, Gran. I can’t love him. What if I lose him? What would I do? I lost Mom and Dad . . . If I lose Rafe . . .”

Her grandmother’s hand rested gently on her back. “Then I guess you have to decide what’s more important to you. Is it your fear? Or is it him?”

“It’s not that simple.”

Aurora smiled. “Oh believe me, sweetheart. It is. It’s completely that simple.”

Her head fought, flooding her mind with all kinds of excuses, with all kinds of fears. Of pain and loneliness. Of heartbreak. Of grief and loss.

But her heart knew. Her heart remembered.

“Pain is pain.” he’d told her once. “It’s your mind that changes it, makes it either unbearable or worth suffering.”

Suddenly all she could see was him sitting on the edge of the tub and the look on his face as she’d walked in. The anger, and beneath that the shame. He hadn’t wanted her to see, and he’d reacted like a hurt animal, lashing out.

And she . . . she’d just walked away. He’d been in pain, and she’d left because she was scared. But not of him. She’d been scared of the feelings inside her, the pain she felt herself as she’d seen the cut on his wrist and the blood. The terrible combination of fury and shame and agony in his blue eyes.

She’d been thinking only of herself, while he’d needed her. In that moment, he’d needed her strength and she’d failed him.

“It hurts to dance, I know it does. But you control it, you’re the master of it. You don’t let it stop you, just like you don’t let your fear get the better of you.”

Ella pushed herself up from the bed all sharply. “Gran, would you mind if I left now?”

Aurora eyed her. “Do I need to ask where you’re going?”

She was already skirting the bed, heading for the door. “No. But if anyone else asks, I’m going to see a man about a wolf.”

* * *

Rafe contemplated the view from his office in DS Tower. It was another shitty late winter day. A bit of sunlight trying to break through the heavy clouds, but it was obviously going to fail and there would be snow again by evening.

Good thing he had no intention of leaving the building any time soon.

He’d been here a couple of days already since there was no point going home—not when there was no one there—and as he was the boss, no one made any mention of him sleeping on the sofa in his office.

Except Lorenzo, who’d murmured a couple of things that made Rafe think the guy knew he was sleeping here, but then Rafe didn’t give a shit. He was a dedicated CEO. No one could fault him for that.

There was a soft knock on his door.

“Come in.” Rafe didn’t turn, watching the clouds move across the sky.

“Mr. de Santis? Someone delivered a note for you. It’s urgent.”

“Just put it on the desk, Gen.”

There was a silence and then he heard the door close.

He should probably look at the note, especially if it was urgent. But lately he’d started to feel as if none of this mattered. As if nothing really mattered. Strange when he’d spent all those years planning for his father’s downfall, planning for himself to take over the company. Show his father he wasn’t the broken boy who’d been sent away. That he was powerful and in control.

He didn’t feel powerful now, though. He just felt . . . empty. As if someone had reached inside and ripped out everything he was from him.

Someone? Her.

Fuck, no. He wouldn’t think of her. She was gone. She’d seen the truth of who he was and then she’d fled. And he’d let her.

It had taken every bit of strength he possessed not to go after her and drag her back. Every ounce of will not to make her return to him by any means necessary.

She’d made her choice and he wouldn’t fight it. She deserved better than him, anyway. Of course, the fact that she’d seen him at his weakest and walked away hurt for reasons he couldn’t have explained to himself.

Probably injured pride. That’s all it was. He’d never liked being weak and her seeing him bleeding like that, and then afterward, his pathetic breakdown . . .

Pain shifted in his heart, inescapable, and his hand was reaching into his pocket where he kept the knife—he liked it close by these days-—before he’d quite understood what he was doing.

He shut his eyes, breathing deeply. No. He wouldn’t give in to the need yet. Perhaps a bit later, when everyone had gone home.

Easing his hand out of his pocket, he made himself turn around and go over to the desk to take a look at what Gen had brought him. An envelope sat on the desktop with his name printed neatly on the front of it.

Strange. Why had whoever sent this not texted him? Or emailed? Or even called on the phone? Especially if it was urgent?

Frowning, he picked up the envelope and ripped it open. A piece of card slipped out into his palm. It looked like an invitation to . . .

His heart stopped. His whole world stopped.

A one-off ballet performance of Little Red Riding Hood, at the theater in Hell’s Kitchen that Ella’s company used. Tonight. Eight o’clock sharp.

No. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t.

His hands shook as he turned over the card, searching for a name, a signature, any clue as to who’d sent it, but there was nothing. But he knew it was her. He knew.

A sudden terrible rage swept through him and he ripped the card into a thousand tiny pieces, scattering them all over his desk. How dare she walk away like that then send him this invitation, without a word. Without even talking to him. How dare she walk away and then reach out to him. How dare she give him hope.

You were the one who drove her away, remember?

Yes, he did, but that didn’t seem to matter to the rage inside him. She had gone, and that’s what hurt.

He turned away from the desk, striding over to the windows, trying to find the calm he’d had earlier watching the clouds race across the sky. But there was no calm to be found. The sky was dark and so was the city outside.

So was his heart.

He left the windows, pacing over to his desk and then to the door. Pacing around and around, rage flowing through him along with that terrible, terrible hope, not knowing what to do with himself. His hand was in his pocket again, his fingers curling around the knife, but he didn’t take it out.

You don’t want to get all bloody if you’re going to a ballet tonight.

No, he wasn’t going to any fucking ballet. He wasn’t.

But he didn’t take the knife out. He kept on pacing, around and around.

The rest of the day passed and even though he’d told himself he wasn’t going to do anything about that invitation, he found himself in the limo at seven thirty heading to the theater all the same.

He wouldn’t get out. He’d simply watch to see who went in, because a one-off performance? Ridiculous.

Yet when he arrived, there was no one going in, none of the usual crowds he’d seen around for other performances. The theater was definitely open though, which was odd. Perhaps he should check it out, see just what was going on.

So he got out of the limo and approached the doors, and found an usher there waiting for him.

“Good to see you, Mr. de Santis,” the man said, as if Rafe had been expected. “Come this way.”

And then he was being led into the theater and into the stalls where he was shown to a seat right in the middle of a row directly in front of the stage.

There was no else there. Absolutely no one.

The music started and the house lights dimmed, and he knew then. He knew that this was for him.

Everything hurt—his head, his heart, his soul. The scars on his wrists throbbed and he suddenly wanted to get up and run from the theater and never set foot in it again.

But just as he’d begun to curl his hands around the arm rests to push himself up and out of his seat, she appeared. In a white tutu, red satin shoes, and a red cloak, and he couldn’t move. He was pinned to his seat as surely as if a sword had been run right through his chest, out his back, and into the seat behind him.

Ella.

She moved lightly across the stage, full of bright joy and hope. Leaping, turning, floating. Every movement controlled and powerful and passionate, her hands outstretched, delicate fingers curled. Little Red Riding Hood off to visit her grandmother, enjoying a walk in the forest.

He couldn’t breathe. He could do nothing but sit there and watch as she danced the dance he’d seen already many times. But this time it was new and he didn’t know why.

What was she doing? Why had she invited him and him alone to watch her dance?

The music changed, becoming darker, and he found himself on the edge of his seat, because the music was for the wolf and soon he would appear, and the chase would begin.

As Ella turned in a slow pirouette in the middle of the stage, facing her audience of one, holding her pose, he waited for the wolf to come leaping up behind her.

But the music stopped, plunging the whole theater into silence. Ella stood on the stage and looked straight at him.

A long, aching moment passed.

She didn’t move, the expression on her delicate, lovely face taut. Her eyes were dark, looking at him, waiting.

And he knew suddenly what she was waiting for. That was his cue.

He rose to his feet without thought, moving along the row of seats to the aisle, and walking down it. She never took her gaze from his, never moved. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and her arms, arched above her head, were trembling slightly.

There was no reason for him to go to her. No reason at all. She’d walked out on him and he’d told himself that was for the best. That she was too good for him, that she deserved better. Yet he walked to the stage all the same and found the stairs that led up beside it. And he went up those stairs, walking across the stage to the dancer in the middle of it. And he stopped right in front of her.

She took a soft, ragged breath that sounded like relief, then said, “Will you dance with me?”

“I can’t.” His voice sounded strange. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s okay.” Her mouth curved in a smile that reached inside his chest and put back something that had been taken from him. “I do.”

And she did, as the music started up again—dancing around him, whirling and leaping in circles, moving right up to him and putting her hands on his shoulders, wrapping one leg around him, laying her head on his chest. Stretching out his arm and laying her hands on it for balance. Then holding his palm to her stomach and turning around and around, winding that arm around her waist, bringing her right up against him.

She was right in front of him now, facing him, up on her toes, looking directly into his eyes. Trembling, her chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I let my fear get the better of me. I should have been strong for you and I wasn’t. I was afraid. But it wasn’t you I was afraid of Rafe, it was me. My feelings for you.”

He held her slender, supple body close, staring into her eyes, overwhelmed by the familiar scent of her, the familiar feel of her. Because after two weeks of not having her, he felt like a man dying of thirst seeing an oasis in the desert.

“What feelings?” He didn’t want to know, not really. He didn’t want that fragile thread of hope to wind itself around his heart. What he wanted was to say something cruel, something hurtful that would push her away for good. Yet she was in his arms and she was trembling, and he just couldn’t.

“I think . . . I’m in love with you.” Her voice shook. “And I should have been there for you. I should never have walked away. I shouldn’t have forced you to tell me things you weren’t ready for, but I was just so scared. And not of being alone.” She took a breath. “I was scared of loving you. Losing my parents was so hard that I didn’t want to care about anyone like that again.”

He could see the fear in the darkness of her eyes, could feel the shudder of it in the tension in her muscles. She was still scared and yet she was looking right at him, telling him she loved him.

She loved him.

After seeing him with a knife and blood running down his wrist. After hearing the truth of everything he’d done, all the lies he’d told and the plans he’d laid, she loved him.

He was broken all the way through, and she loved him.

“You can’t,” he said. “I won’t ever be fixed, Ella. I won’t ever be right. There’s nothing about me that’s good, nothing about me that’s even sane. I cut myself because I need the pain, because it makes me feel like I’m in control. What kind of fucked-up man does that?”

Her hands lifted to cup his face, her delicate fingers against his skin making him shudder. “The kind of fucked-up man I love. You gave me your strength when I needed it, so now let me give you mine. Because you’re right, I am strong. Strong enough to love you the way you should be loved.” Her eyes were full of tears, but they didn’t fall. “You don’t have to tell me about what happened with your grandfather. I’m not going to make any more bargains with you. In fact, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. Just know that I am here for you and I’m not ever going to leave.” She stroked him with her thumbs. “My heart was right about you from the beginning, Rafe. It knew what kind of person you were when I was only two years old. And for years I thought it was trying to warn me away from you, but it wasn’t.” She trembled. “It was trying to tell me that you were mine, but I was too scared to listen.”

He was hers . . .

Had he been anyone’s before? Had anyone ever claimed him like that? Had anyone ever said it to his face? No, no one ever had. Just like no one had ever told him they loved him. Oh, his grandfather had told him that he cared, but his grandfather’s caring had been a belt. A hot poker on his skin. Suffocation and pain. A knife in the darkness.

Ella’s caring was delicate fingers on his skin. Tears on her cheeks. Grace and beauty as she danced for him and him alone. Passion as she took him into her body. Strength as she looked into his eyes and told him he loved her.

His chest ached and he hurt, but for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the urge to go for the knife. Instead, he kept his arms locked around her, his gaze on hers. “It was the lasagna,” he said quietly. “I’d been in the cellar three days without food and when my punishment was ended, my grandfather cooked me lasagna. I ate too much because I was starving and then I got sick. And he beat me for it.”

Ella said nothing, holding his gaze, not looking away, giving him her strength, and he felt it flow into him, holding him up the way he’d held her up.

“But that’s not the only reason I went into the bathroom and used the knife, Ella. When I saw you standing at my stove, cooking, humming a little song, with your hair hanging down your back, I just felt . . . something big. Something heavy. And I didn’t know what it was. I thought pain would help me feel more in control, help me deal with whatever it was I was feeling. But then you came in and saw me . . .”

“You were angry.”

He didn’t flinch. “I was ashamed. I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want you to see how fucked up and broken and—”

“No,” she said fiercely. “You’re not broken, Rafe. You never were. You were just a hurt little boy, just like I was a scared little girl. And you’re not broken now, understand me? Pain is just pain, that’s what you told me. It’s up to us how we deal with it, remember?”

His heart felt full, like it was going to burst out of his chest. Hope was a light inside him, too bright to look at and yet impossible not to at the same time. “I don’t know how to change, Red. I don’t know how to do it differently. I don’t know if I even can.”

“You can,” she whispered. “We both can. We’re strong, Rafe. We can do this together.”

No, he was mistaken. The hope wasn’t a light inside him. Hope was the woman in his arms. Hope was his Little Red.

He lifted her against him, and she wound her legs around his waist, gripping him tight. She was so light in his arms, he could carry her for days.

And he laid his mouth against hers and whispered the words he’d been waiting to say his whole life and never realized until now. “I love you.”

There was no huntsman in this story.

And nobody died.

But the wolf found he had good in him after all, and Little Red Riding Hood found that she had some wolf in her.

And together they lived happily ever after.