“I hate you!” I cry, trying to jerk my hand away, but he doesn’t let me. His touch is agony—searing me with heat and a need I’ve been trying to forget for two months. I hate him. God. I hate him so much. I hate him for making me love him. I hate him for pushing me away. I hate him for destroying me with his words. I hate him for leaving me alone for two months. But, most of all, I hate him for coming back. Coming back, not because he cared, or because he missed me too. He came back to catch Blade. He views me and Maggie as a responsibility.

He came back to leave again.

I drag air through my lungs. They feel raw, just like the rest of me right now.

“I hate myself,” he answers and for a moment he looks so lost…so broken that some of my anger fades.

I had Victor collect information on Michael that first month. I read about his daughter, his club and exactly what my brother did to destroy them. I learned Michael’s wife was a self-centered bitch who used their daughter against him. I learned the hell Michael’s life had been before he found the club and then after. I always knew he was broken. I never realized how deep it went. The one thing that stood out above everything else—and there was a lot. The one thing—was looking at a picture of Annabelle. She was beautiful. Long blonde hair with ringlet curls and a heart-shaped face that accentuated her chubby cheeks so well you wish you could touch them…kiss them. Her eyes though, were like round sparkly blue diamonds with enough warmth in them to fill the world. She was special. Everything about her picture told you that and reading how she died, how men had to drag Michael away from the burning carnage destroyed me. This man. This beautifully scarred, broken man—who so easily crushed me, was damaged in ways I would never understand. He was shattered into a million fragments inside and all of them were jagged and rough. All of them would leave you bleeding if you touched them. It would be suicide to soften towards him again. It would be suicide to try and hold him.

“Don’t do this, Michael. I’m not strong enough to withstand you again,” I plead.

“I’m sorry, Beauty.” The nickname is like a knife going through my heart. Plunging in so painfully that I can’t help but gasp from the pain and shock.

“Don’t. Don’t call me that again,” I whisper, agony laced in my voice so thick it makes it hoarse. “Never again,” I tell him, my eyes closing and the tears I had been restraining break free and I hate that I feel them on my cheeks. I hate that I can’t control them.

I hate that I still love him.

I keep my eyes shut as Michael brings his hand up. I feel his fingers barely touch the side of my face, touching along my jawline and under my eyes. His thumb brushes against the tears and I hear his breathing. It seems so loud that all other sounds in the room stop. Everything seems to stop existing except me and Michael.

“I’m sorry, Beauty,” he whispers in his deep, gruff voice that I remember so well—ignoring my plea. My body trembles from the force of holding back my sobs.

“You pushed me away. You’re already planning on leaving again. Why couldn’t you just stay away, Michael. I needed you to stay away,” I tell him, eyes still closed. The last sentence I say in a broken whisper that you can barely hear. At least I can’t hear it. It’s drowned out by the way my heart is beating in my chest and the fear rushing through my blood.

“I can’t. God help me, Hayden. I can’t,” he says, and I cry harder.

“What’s going on in here?” I hear Clive asking as the bell on the door goes off, announcing his entry.

I don’t answer him. I can’t right now. Truthfully, I wish he hadn’t showed up. Michael pulls me into his arms and I should be stronger. I really should be. But, I go willingly. I fall against him and it feels like I’m breathing for the first time in months. I take in his scent, how safe I feel in this moment and I relax against him, letting his chest catch my tears. His arm goes around me—just one. With the other, he changes his hold on my hand and our fingers wrap around one another, linking. Holding hands just like we always did. Just like the past two months never happened.

But they did…