First, it was the shift in the bed. Then Tessa heard the ringing. It was loud and irritating. And entirely too close.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tristan mumbled, his arm hitting the bedside table next to him. After some more banging and a curse, the noise stopped.

She turned over when she heard Tristan mutter something.

Dawn was peeking through the curtains. It was early, just about to be morning. Tessa grumbled. Her day would start soon, but the last thing she wanted to do was get out of bed. She was so happy there. Warm, peaceful. Her body was a little sore from the night before, but in the most wonderful way.

Tessa curled her legs up under the covers and smiled when a tingle pulsed between them. She might be worn out, but that didn’t stop her from wanting to make love with Tristan again. Because she was sure it had been just that. Their connection, their shared emotion had been fierce. Unstoppable. The kind that melded her heart and body together, any feeling she experienced for him in one instantly enthralling the other.

Her self-doubt, her anxiety—Tristan had obliterated them with an intimacy so powerful Tessa could still feel it in her toes.

Ah, but you’re forgetting the guilt, aren’t you? You were going to confess. You were going to tell him everything and you didn’t. You took his love freely, Tessa, and you couldn’t even give him honesty in return.   

That bitter realization had Tessa jolting up at the exact moment she realized Tristan was no longer on the phone. And that every muscle in his body was rigid.

“Tristan?”

“It wasn’t my phone.”

“What?”

“The call I answered,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t my phone.”

“Oh.” Tessa gripped the sheet to her chest, hearing the hint of warning in his voice. “Who was it?”

Tristan didn’t answer. Instead, he got out of bed and pulled on his pants. Each movement was sharp, jerky. Tessa saw his hand clench before he brought it to the back of his neck and crushed down. Panic flooded her. Oh, fuck.

“Tristan? Who was it?”

“How long have you been working for him?” Tristan’s back was to her and his nails were clawing the top of his scar.

She wanted to kiss it. Kiss him. But his tone told her he didn’t want her anywhere close. “Who?”

“Really?” He whirled. Every ounce of warmth and love he’d displayed the night before was gone. In its place, controlled…nothingness. Tessa felt a huge shiver rip through her.

“Tristan.” She said his name again, hoping to draw him back. “You’re scaring me. Tell me who you were talking to.”

His jaw flexed, then he was pacing. Back and forth, his long strides making each lap too short, every subsequent turn and retreat faster and sharper than the one before. “I didn’t expect it from you, Tessa. God damn it! I never expected it from you.”

Tessa sprang up, wrapping the sheet around her. She didn’t get in his path—she didn’t want to get trampled—but she couldn’t explain if she didn’t know what he was talking about. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Please, just tell me.”

He stopped mid-stride, his hands dropping to grind into his gorgeous, sculpted hips. “How did he get to you?”

“Who, Tristan? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“My father.”

Tessa jerked, fisting the sheet tighter. “What?”

“My father. Maxwell Hurst. How did he get to you? How did he convince you to work for him?”

Tessa felt a giggle bubble up but swallowed it the second she registered the expression on his face. Tristan’s icy blue eyes were clouded with betrayal, anger. But it was the deep, gut-wrenching sadness that had Tessa stepping forward. Her hand was just inches from his arm when he pulled away.

“The call to your phone that I answered. By mistake.”

Tessa nodded, desperate for clarification.

“It was Jacob.”

Tessa actually groaned. Of course he was calling. As always, his timing couldn’t be any fucking worse. God, she was going to hate the conversation when she had to explain why a guy was answering her phone crazy early in the morning.

“Tristan.” Tessa did laugh then, resigned. Irritated. “You can stop freaking out. It was just my dad.”

Tessa dropped onto the bed and patted the spot next to it. Tristan didn’t sit.

“Jacob Roach is your dad?” He should have been relieved. But, if anything, Tristan sounded even more furious.

“Umm, yeah.”

“But your last name is Armstrong.”

“It’s my grandmother’s maiden name. My middle name.”

Tristan’s shoulder muscles bunched as one hand resumed punishing his neck. “Why the hell do you use your grandmother’s maiden name?”

Guilt was gnawing at her stomach, and her pulse refused to slow. Tessa wasn’t blameless. She knew that. She knew she had so much to explain. But Tristan’s accusation that she had anything to do with his father hurt like hell. And his question about her name—and everything that came with it—had her anger flaring, the words pouring out at rapid speed.  

“Because I didn’t want to enroll at the CIA under the name Roach! My parents were against my career from the start. They put up every hurdle they could think of. They reported the restaurant where I was apprenticing for employing a minor too many hours a week. They cut off access to my bank account—on which they were co-signers because I was under eighteen—because they didn’t want me to be able to pay for weekend classes. They refused point blank to pay for culinary school.”

Tessa was on the verge of yelling, all of the frustration from her teenage and college years coming back in a rush. She hauled in a breath, trying to rein in her temper. “My grandmother was the only one who supported me. My father’s mother. They have a lot in common, Gran and Dad. They can both be crazy uptight and always think they know best. But, for whatever reason, she understood how much I love it. Baking. So, when my parents refused to help, she stepped in. Loaned me the money when I needed it. Told my father to fuck off when he wouldn’t listen to me. When I enrolled at the CIA, she helped cover some of the tuition. And I went in as Tessa Armstrong instead of Tessa Roach.”

“Oh.”

“That’s it?” Tessa huffed. “Oh?”

“I still don’t understand…” Tristan mumbled.

“For the love of God, Tristan. What?! Wha— Wait.” Tessa sat up, the chill back. “How did you know who was calling? His name, I mean. It’s not like my dad is programmed into my phone as ‘Jacob Roach.’ And, come to think of it, why the hell did you answer my phone to begin with?”

“I just grabbed it, I wasn’t looking. Thought it was mine. I must have accepted the call by mistake.”

“Okaaaay, but—”

“I know him.”

Tessa almost dropped the sheet. “Excuse me?”

“Your father. I know him,” Tristan repeated, staring at a spot on the floor a few inches from her feet.

“H-how?”

He shrugged, his mind stuck on something else. “Tessa, his message—”

“Tell me now. Tristan! Tell me how—”

“In a second.” He looked up at her. The flatness in his eyes was replaced by cold calculation. “First, I need to know something. Something really fucking important.”

“Fine. What?”

“Your father said it didn’t work. That Dexter didn’t get what he needed. That you were going to get another call. Today.”

“Dad, he said that? To a man he doesn’t know, on the phone?”

“No.” Tristan shook his head, his black brows pulled down low. His jaw ticked. “Like I said, I know him. I’m familiar with his shorthand.”

Tessa pressed one hand to her forehead. It was pounding. She didn’t understand what was happening, not at all. Tristan kneeled down in front of her, balancing his hands on the bed, on either side of her.

“You know him….” She looked at him, wide-eyed. “Does he know you? Like, he knew you were on the other end of the phone?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t say much. Mostly grunts. Doubt he recognized my voice.”

“Oh,” she muttered. “Wh-what did he say? His actual words.”

“He said the sale didn’t go through. That the buyer would try again. And that you’d need to provide access to the account.”

It was his shorthand. Stupid fucking phrases he’d come up with—or she’d assumed he had—when they’d agreed to this awful arrangement. He’d said it would be an easy way to talk if they weren’t alone. He’d tried to make it sound like some sort of stupid intrigue. Like a movie. Idiot. Tessa’s shoulders fell. It didn’t matter. It was just one more lie in a long line of others.

The sale didn’t go through. Dexter didn’t get the information he needed.

The buyer would try again. They would have to try again. Harder.

She needed to provide access to the account. She, Tessa, was still on the hook. Her father was still a lying fucking criminal jackass. And her grandmother could lose her life-saving medical treatment any day.

Tessa gripped one of his hands. “How do you know Dexter? Dad would never say his name.”

“I know him, Tessa. I know them. I definitely know enough to put two and two together.”

“How?” Tessa squeezed his hand in emphasis. She was done explaining. It was his turn.

“They work for my father.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

“No.” Tessa was emphatic. “No. They work for McMillan & Associates.”

“Tessa,” he said slowly, like she was a child. Or ridiculously dense. “McMillan & Associates is a subsidiary of Hurst. They report to my father. Directly. Both of them.”

“This makes no sense.” She shook her head, unable to slot the pieces into a clear picture.

Tristan gently pulled free and stood up. “When Hurst diversified several years ago, they bought McMillan. Senior management was kept on as part of the deal. Your father included. Since then, Max has used it as one of the many companies through which he can scrub away his indiscretions.”

Tessa squinted up at him.

“Max. My father. He’s played a good game, for a long time. He and Mark’s father, Andrew Donovan, shared control of the family company until a little less than twenty years ago. Uncle Andrew died of a heart attack when Mark was in college. After that, Max took full control. And he was impressive. Scion of a powerful family, but not power hungry. No.” Tristan gave his head a rueful shake. “No, he was responsible. Conscientious. Promoted good business practices and transparency in financial transactions. Paid his employees well. Never fucked over the little guy. At least, that’s how he always made it look.”

Tristan wandered away from the bed, the muscles in his upper back straining. “Turns out Max Hurst just puts up a good front.” He paused, looking at Tessa from across the still-dim room. “You know what he did to Mark and Jack. And Grace, right?”

“Yes. Enough.”

“That’s just a sliver of what he’s capable of. He’s been fucking people over for decades. Undermining companies, exchanging insider information for competitors’ secrets, stealing deals, buying up firms and stripping them down. Being an all-around immoral asshole. And McMillan helps him do it.”

Tessa closed her eyes, unable to look at him. She felt sick. She knew she’d made a mistake agreeing to help her father. But she hadn’t realized she’d made her deal with such a devil.

“Your father. Jacob Roach.” Tristan resumed pacing, frustration coursing through him. “I found out about him a few months ago. The mess he’d gotten himself into. Selling secrets that weren’t his to share. Certainly not his to profit from. I can’t say I’m impressed, Tessa. Your father, he’s not a particularly bright guy. Double-crossing a double-crosser never ends well.”

“Yeah,” she managed. “I think he’s learned that lesson.”

“Well,” Tristan growled, “if he hasn’t, he will really fucking soon. Which brings me back to my earlier question. What did he mean, Tessa? About it not working? About Dexter not getting what he needed?”

Tessa felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. Her fingers were numb where she clutched the sheet. Oh, fuck. What had she gotten herself into?

The silence stretched as Tristan waited for her answer. “They gave me instructions. I followed them. I didn’t ask questions.  I don’t know what they were doing. I didn’t ask. They wouldn’t have told me, anyway. So I don’t know what they wanted. But, I guess….” She trailed off, not making eye contact. “I guess they didn’t get it.”

“You are working for him.” Tristan’s accusation was quiet. And as lethal as a blade slipping silently between her ribs.

“I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m not. I didn’t know he was involved, Tristan, I swear to God. And I didn’t have a choice. Not, not”—she held up a hand, trying to tamp down some of his rage—“because of my father. But because of my gran.”

Tristan’s face was unreadable. She wanted to get up, to go to him, to try to make him understand. But Tessa didn’t think her legs would hold her.

“Whatever shit my father pulled, Dexter has him backed into a corner.”

“Trust me, Dexter is never that subtle. He’s got your father’s balls squeezed in a vise, be sure of it.”

Tessa blew out a breath, hating the image. And Tristan’s terrible, dead tone. “They’ve locked him out of his bank accounts. He doesn’t have any money. Nothing to keep him living the life he thinks he deserves. Which I don’t care about. Not one bit. But Gran….” Tessa got up. She needed him to listen, to understand what she was saying. “Gran needs regular, almost-daily treatment for kidney failure. It’s severe. And expensive. She used most of her money to help get me through school. She relies on my dad for the rest. And now, me.” Tessa took a hesitant step towards him, watching his face for any sign of life. “I didn’t want to help him. I swear. But I couldn’t let anything happen to my grandmother. Please, please try to understand that.”

Tessa was a few feet from Tristan. Only hours ago, she’d been sure that she knew him. Truly. Deep down. The man he was, the friend he’d become. The lover she’d given her body and heart to. And probably a good chunk of her soul. But the man in front of her was none of those things. He was the man who got into the ocean and swam and swam and swam until he was past the horizon. Or until his limbs gave out and he vanished beneath the surface.

He was staring, the blues of his eyes icing over, and Tessa knew she was the cause. It didn’t matter what they’d shared or all the things she had given him. Because, foolishly, she’d kept back the most important. Her trust. And the truth.

“Tristan?” Tessa’s voice was watery, a fine thread of fear audible in the early morning silence.

“What did you do?”

“What?”

“You said you had to help him. Them. What. Did. You. Do?”

“Not a lot,” she stumbled forward, scrambling for a way to explain. “First it was just information. Random stuff. Like how renovations at the hotel were coming. If they’d be done on time. If you thought everything would be finished on-budget.”

“If I thought everything would be finished on-budget?”

Tessa didn’t miss the emphasis. He was stringing the details together. Tristan now knew that he’d been a part of it. That whatever information Dexter had asked her to collect, whatever questions she’d needed to ask to get it—Tristan realized he was involved.

“They didn’t ask for details.” Tessa skirted around his question. “No numbers, no dates, no specifics. Just a general sense of how things were going.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. Saying it out loud, Tessa registered how odd it seemed. And how incredibly un-useful that information would be. Which made her realize she’d been really fucking stupid. And that she truly had no clue what was going on.

“What else?”

Tessa forced back the urge to throw up. “They needed access. To a room.”

“Which room?”

“Uh, one of the new suites. In the east building. They just needed a key, a way in. The guy. He didn’t stay.”

“You know that for certain?”

“Yes,” Tessa mumbled. “I had security check. I met him, let him in, gave him the key. Told him he couldn’t stay. Not more than one night. He said he wasn’t even staying that long. He had just a small bag. I had security check. He was gone before evening.”

“And the key?”

“The key?” she repeated, hating how clueless she sounded.

“The key, Tessa. Was it still in the room? Or did he take it with him?”

“Shit!” She shook her head, confused. “Shit, I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask security about it. I mean, how many guests return keys when they leave a hotel? Don’t most people just throw them out? Or find a collection in the bottom of their bags months later?”

Tessa didn’t think it was possible, but Tristan’s glare got even harder.

“Christ, I’m sorry, Tristan. I didn’t think the key was important.”

“Shit, Tessa! You didn’t think, full stop. And everything is fucking important!” he shouted, backing away from her. His hand banded his neck, blood flushing his cheekbones red. He was so fucking angry.

“No. No. Stop.” Tessa felt a surge of helplessness, followed immediately by frustration. He was furious with her, fine. The whole thing was a huge fucking mess, fine. She understood that. But she was a cog, not the cause. “I did a stupid thing. I get that. But I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. Jesus!” It came out half-shout, half-sob. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to help her, Tristan. I just had to help.”

“Trust me when I say, you haven’t done a single thing to help. You and your father have made everything so much worse.”

“How?” Tessa was shouting now too. “I’m not going to defend my father. Whatever happens to him, he deserves. And, as far as I’m concerned, it can’t come soon enough. Do you want to know why I took this job, Tristan?” She barreled on, not expecting an answer. “I took it because I had to leave New York. I had to get out, away from him. From his constant pleading, his constant need for money. You say he’s been in trouble for months? I can tell you it’s been longer than that. Whatever he did to fuck over Max, he started a while ago. And they’ve been slowly bleeding him dry since.

“He’d show up to my restaurants, asking for money. Always so fucking well dressed in his goddamn five-thousand-dollar shoes, his driver waiting in his hundred-thousand-dollar car, asking me for money. Because his cash supply was disappearing. And I said no. Dear old Dad did nothing to deserve my handouts. Fuck, because it would’ve been beyond charity. It would have been tying myself to a sinking ship. If I’d caved just once, if I’d given him one cent, one time, I would never have been able to stop.

“But I couldn’t handle the constant pestering. The unwanted visits. The calls. The emails. So when Grace told me about this job, it seemed perfect. To be so far away…I couldn’t think of anything better. But I hesitated. Because I didn’t want to leave Gran. And do you know what she told me?”

Tristan had stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes unreadable as he listened to everything erupting from her.

“She told me to go. Told me to jump at the chance for this adventure. To get free of her son and his ridiculous wife, my mother. She told me to put my passion to use at a place where I could be surrounded by friends, where I could feel like I was working hard for something I loved.”

“So you came.”

“So I came. Which is ironic. Because just before I got away, my father was finally successful at the one thing he’d been trying to do for years. He dragged me into his mess. I made the stupid decision—the first of many, I assure you—and went to say goodbye. Only to walk straight into this fucked-up situation. Because Dexter was there with Dad. And helping him—or not—well, it was no longer a choice. Not for me.

“So, yeah, I didn’t think. I did what they demanded because it was the only thing I could do. I didn’t want to call their bluff and be the reason Gran stopped getting the dialysis that keeps her alive. Because that’s what’s at risk, Tristan. I don’t cooperate, and Dexter sells Dad out. The SEC, the FBI, the police. Who knows who wants him. Maybe they all do. But if Dad goes down, the only money they let him access, the money that pays for Gran’s medical treatment vanishes. I don’t make enough to pay for it on my own. So, that’s the deal I made. I do as I’m told so my grandmother doesn’t die of kidney failure. Because I couldn’t think of an alternative. And I didn’t think I could find a way around Dexter on my own. Is that what I should have done? Gone toe to toe with your father’s well-dressed thug?”

“No!” Tristan was across the room in a flash, his grip powerful around Tessa’s upper arms. She recognized the wild look in his eyes. It was the same one he’d had when he’d dragged her out of the hurricane. “No.” He emphasized the word with a squeeze. “Do not go up against him, Tessa. That’s not want I want. Not ever. You will not win that fight. Whatever else happens, please, don’t try.”

Whatever else happens…. Tessa stopped breathing for a second, hating the implication of those three little words. Then the fear he felt on her behalf sank in.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“You don’t know what kind of man Dexter is.” His eyes searched her face, protectiveness raging. “You don’t know what kind of men they are.”

“Tell me.” Tessa wanted to scream it, to shake him and get him to open up. To help her understand the damaged look he tried so hard to hide. “Please. Just tell me.”

Tristan released her and he stepped away. Tessa was sure he wasn’t going to answer. That she’d lost him again.

But, quietly, “He’s unscrupulous. Violent. Dangerous.”

“How do you know that?’

“Because I know the man who made him that way.”

Tessa didn’t want to ask. The question was stuck in her throat, her eyes stinging with the agony of it. But it was too late. She couldn't go back now. “Who?”

Tristan stilled, his gaze running across her face. Like he was committing it to memory. Like he was trying to form a picture he could take with him. But the pain Tessa felt when she recognized the look, and the meaning behind it, was nothing compared to what she felt when he finally answered, “The man who did this.”

He turned, showing her his back and the massive scar she knew was embedded there. Tessa reached out, lightly skimming one of the lines that ended just shy of his spine. When he didn’t move, she pressed both palms to his warm skin. Tristan sighed, his head falling forward. It was enough. A sign of acceptance. Tessa took it, resting her forehead between his shoulder blades.

“Tell me,” she repeated, the words a feather-light kiss. “Please.”

Her rapid heartbeat measured the seconds he stayed silent. Then, he started. “I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to stay at Mark’s that night. But I forgot my cleats and I needed them for the next day. I had a soccer match. I didn’t want to make a separate trip in the morning. So I went home. I was headed up to my room when I heard them.”

Tessa felt the muscle and bone of his torso expand on a deep, shaky breath. “They were in my dad’s office. Which was weird ’cause Mom never went in there. But something had happened. Because they were there, and Max was screaming. I’d heard my dad get mad before. I was a little shit as a teenager. Always getting into trouble. Thinking I was God’s gift. And Mark and I got into a ton of trouble together. So it’s not like I wasn’t used to him having a good vent every once in a while. But that…it was something else entirely.

“He was furious. Shouting. But not a proper scream.” Tristan shivered; Tessa pressed her cheek against him, hoping the added warmth would help. “It was…cold. Lacked…I don’t know, depth. He wasn’t moving around, waving at her, grabbing her. He was at his desk just hurling these words at her. So fucking precisely. Like he hoped they’d cut. Like he wanted to take her down without even touching her. And my mom—”

Tristan stopped, his voice strained. His hands clenched at his sides. Tessa saw his arms tightening, knew what he wanted to do. She laced their fingers together, anchoring him.

“My mom,” he continued, “is not a timid woman. She’s fierce. A force to be reckoned with. A lot like you, actually.” He gave one hand a small squeeze. “She was the real disciplinarian in the house. If I did something that warranted a verbal lashing from Tamsin, I knew I’d fucked up bad. Which is why”—he shook his head, fortifying himself—“which is why I didn’t understand. She was just standing there. Not saying a word. She let him yell and say these awful things to her. Insults. Foul, foul things. She let him rage and didn’t say anything. She just stared. Silent. Resigned. Waiting….

“I think that’s why he did it, actually. I think her lack of reaction drove him over the edge. I’ve learned since that it doesn’t take much. But maybe that was the moment that tipped the scales forever. The thing that cracked whatever restraint he had, weakening it indefinitely. Who knows. But Mom just stood there and watched—Tessa, she fucking watched—him pick up a glass from the sideboard. One of those big crystal fuckers. Ancient, heavy. With the bottom an inch thick. She watched him pick it up and stood there, waiting for him to throw it at her. And I couldn’t—

“You couldn’t let him do it.”

“I couldn’t let him do it,” Tristan repeated, his devastation heartrending. “I was too far away to stop him. So I jumped in front of her.”

Tristan fell silent, his back twitching as he relived the memory. Tessa felt dampness against her lips, a thin line of sweat marking his spine.

“The glass bounced off.” Tristan half-laughed, half-choked, like it was still a surprise. “None of us expected that, I’m pretty sure. But it bounced off my back and fell to the ground. Didn’t even break, the carpet was so thick. But that—that’s what really sent him over the edge. Me, standing in front of my mom, and that stupid fucking glass rolling across the floor.

“Max lost it. Completely. That cold rage was gone and in its place burned hot fucking fury. I heard the shatter before I felt anything. We were trying to get to the door, Mom and me. And I had my back to the room, just in case. It was spring. I had a lightweight shirt on. Nothing that offered any real protection. Mom was shell-shocked, not moving very fast. And I kept getting caught against her legs, then the furniture. Gangly fucking teenage legs, you know? I’d grown six inches in what felt like a week, was still trying to figure how to use them. I was not the star of the soccer team, let’s just put it that way.”

Tristan released a shaky laugh and Tessa held his hands tighter, feeling the moment of nervous humor pass and the muscles beneath her face lock up.

“It couldn’t have lasted very long. But it felt like ages. One after another. He learned fast, though. Broke the glasses before he threw them. So they were already sharp. Pieces stuck, some cut pretty deep. The last one…well, he’d gotten pretty close by then. We were almost out the door, but not quite. And he didn’t throw it. He pushed it. Jagged edge first. Took a huge hunk of skin out.”

Tessa knew the spot, exactly. The imperfect, deep circle in the center of the sun. Where Tristan’s father had practically cut the muscle from the bone. She kissed him there. Soft. Chaste. It broke whatever trance he’d fallen into. He slipped free, found his shirt, and pulled it over his head.

“Why the tattoo?” She wasn’t sure she had the right to ask, but she needed to know.

“Simple. It’s much sexier than the shredded skin beneath it. Ladies always love a tattoo.”

“No,” Tessa pushed, ignoring his intentional dodge. “Why the sun, shattered and eyes closed?”

Tristan was collecting the rest of his things. His phone from the nightstand. His belt from the floor. He sat on the bed and was slipping on his socks when he finally answered. “The Hurst family crest. In the center is a sun. The same one I have, except not cracked. And eyes open.”

Tessa stood in front of him, her sheet-clad abdomen directly in front of his face. She waited, bracing for the rest.

“I didn’t hear much, when he was screaming and throwing broken glass at me. But the one thing that stands out—that I will never forget as long as I live—is him screaming that I was—am—a disgrace. Unworthy. That I shame the name. The tattoo, it’s proof I was listening. I am a Hurst by name, by blood, but by nothing else. A broken sun for a broken son.”

“Tristan….” All of Tessa’s anguish and remorse was clear in that single word. And it had him off the bed in an instant.

“Don’t. Stop. I didn’t tell you so you’d feel sorry for me. I don’t want to sit here and psychoanalyze how being attacked by my father and hidden away by my mother fucked me up so hard, for so long, that I’ve spent the past twenty years avoiding every emotion because I knew that when I started with one, however good, the rest would be close behind, all of them bad….”

Tristan’s eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw trembling as he left the bedroom. “I don’t want to explain why I run, why I always fucking run, because that’s what Tamsin told me to do. That she taught me that if I just kept running he’d never be able to get me. And that, even when I worked at Hurst, I was so fucking far away. Here”—he pressed his hand to his head—“and here.” His heart.

“And I don’t want to talk and talk and talk about how it fucking broke me.” Tristan swiped at his face and Tessa looked away, not wanting him to see her stare. Not wanting him to realize she guessed it was tears, not sweat, dampening his cheeks.

“I don’t want to talk about how we never recovered. About how he became so cruel, so cold, after that. About how my mom left for Europe the second I went to college and hasn’t been home since. Or about how Max held her inheritance from her family, the money that enables her to stay away, hostage until I agreed to work at Hurst and nowhere else. I don’t want to talk about how I worked and worked and never lived for all the years I was in New York, just to make sure I had enough money to keep her away. Or that I never had a single serious relationship because I couldn’t imagine asking anyone to become a part of my crazy, fucked-up family.

“I don’t want to talk, Tessa,” he heaved, “about how I spent so much time alone I forgot what it’s like to feel love from someone. Anyone. I forgot it was possible that someone could love me because I’m me. Not for my family name, not for my money, not for any other fucked-up reason that makes people pretend to care when they don’t.

“I don’t want to talk about how Max almost destroyed my cousin’s company, or how he paid someone to attack Mark—my best friend in the world—and his girlfriend. Or about how they could have died because of my father. I don’t want to talk about how Mark risked so much just to be able to offer me a place here, a fresh start.” Those red-rimmed eyes couldn’t contain the tears tumbling from the sides.

“I don’t want to talk about how hard it was for me to fall back into friendship with Mark. To remember to speak, instead of just sitting and staring into space. To remember how to take the thoughts out of my head and find the words that could attempt to describe the years’ and years’ worth of secrets and dreams I’ve stored up, knowing no one wanted to hear them. Knowing no one would even listen.

“I don’t want to have to explain to you how I still wake up forgetting that I’m different, forgetting that I’m free. Forgetting that I don’t have to drown out the guilty voice in my head that insists it was my fault he lost his mind, my fault he went crazy and shouted at my mom and tore my back to shreds. That I wake up forgetting I don’t need the punishing weight of the ocean to remind me to keep breathing.”

Tristan was at the door. His hands were limp at his sides. The energy that wound him so tight, the emotion that drove him to claw at his scar, was bleeding from him with everything he didn’t want to talk about, and all the words he couldn’t stop saying.

“But of everything, Tessa, do you know what I really, truly don’t want to talk about?”

He waited, eyes bleak, until she nodded. And her own tears fell to the floor in silence.

“I really, truly don’t want to talk about how I’ve fallen in love with a woman and that she’s the only person in this entire world who has ever, ever made me feel this way. That she makes me feel so alive, so present, so fucking here, that I’ll take every bad memory, every past pain, every terrified moment I spent in that lonely fucking cabin for two months, every guilty thought and regret, every single feeling I’ve been running from since I was sixteen—I’ll take them all, just to have this crazy, wild thing with her. The woman I love.

“The woman whose actions have potentially ruined the one chance Mark and Jack and I have to destroy the man who has terrorized our lives.

“The woman who, without even realizing it, has been helping the man who broke me as a child. That is the thing, Tessa, that I really, truly don’t want to talk about. Not now. Not ever.”