His sigh told me he didn’t believe it.

Clarity set in. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going out of my mind. I had to see for myself you were safe.”

“I’m fine, Logan. I‘11be fine,” I lied. Physically maybe, but emotionally, I didn’t think I would.

The doubt in his stare made his hazel eyes look icy.

I chose to ignore it and press on. “Why didn’t you come back to your father’s this morning?” I asked, even though I knew why. Still, it was a start to the bigger conversation.

His face was worn, his eyes tired. He rubbed his jaw. “I didn’t know what to do. I had to figure things out. And to do that I needed, I need, some time alone.”

Being alone meant not being with me, which in turn, in his mind, meant I was out of danger. I got that. I just didn’t agree with it. I didn’t want him to be alone. I didn’t want to be alone. But he was worried that if he stayed with me, something bad was going to happen. If something bad was going to happen, I believed it would happen either way. Was he here because he just couldn’t fight his need to be with me? Or had he decided we were in this together? I had to know. “And what has changed?” I asked, trying to make him think this through. Hopefully see that we were better together.

Logan stared at me with blankness in his eyes.

I knew right then nothing had changed. I should have asked him to leave—I didn’t. Instead I pressed on, hopeful. “Logan, what has changed?” I repeated, hoping for a miracle.

There was a slight shake of his head. His beautiful hair was tousled, his stubble longer than usual. Everything about him screamed that he was lost.

And even though I felt anger that he couldn’t see what I saw, that we should fight together, I couldn’t fight my longing to take the lost boy and comfort him. Maybe make him see things the way I did. That if anything was going to happen, it would happen either way.

“After everything that happened last night, I had to make certain you were okay,” he said, avoiding my question.

No matter how many times I tried to reassure him that I would be fine, that I could take care of myself, it didn’t matter. I could see the turbulence he was suffering in his eyes—that he didn’t see it the way I did.

“And we need to talk. Get our stories straight,” he further clarified.

I nodded.

He took the lead, the alpha in him back in action, as he led me to the sofa. Once we sat down, we were only inches away from each other, but it felt like miles. I watched the way his lips moved as he spoke, the way his jaw tensed when I told him about Michael’s call. I couldn’t turn my emotions off, but I tried as our conversation turned even more serious and we discussed our situation in detail—the delivery, what he’d done, his father, the DEA, Tommy, and what had happened after he left me last night.

Facts. Facts. And more facts.

Nothing that changed our tragic situation.

When the talking had ceased, the what-to-say-if-asked agreed upon, we stared at each other. I was searching for the right way to discuss his fear, but I never found the words.

I don’t know who moved first, him or me, just that his lips were on mine and they felt so good I wasn’t going to deny the moment.

I opened for him. My mouth, my arms, my legs, and of course my heart.

His hand curled against the back of my neck, possessively, drawing me nearer.

Need so big, so large it was like an ocean, a mountain, the world, consumed us.

Without words, he rose, picked me up, carried me to my bed, and set me down.

My heart was pounding.

He unbuttoned. Unzipped. I tugged my shirt off, my leggings, my panties. Eyes only on each other, both naked, our bodies found one another.

Frantic for each other, we kissed. We touched. We tangled ourselves together.

His hands roamed.

Mine did the same.

Then his lips found my skin and he kissed my mouth, my jaw, my chin, my neck.

The lights in the room were on and I could see everything. All of him. The leanness of his body. The pale, smooth skin that covered his ribs, his stomach, the jut of his hip bones, and his beautiful, long, fully erect cock. I reached for it, and the feel of him in the palm of my hand made my clit pulse with so much dizzying need that I had to close my eyes. “Fuck me.” The words slipped from my mouth.

He made a noise and for a second, I wasn’t certain he was going to, but then he rolled us over and before I knew it, I was staring down at his handsome face, straddling him.

I drew a line over the scar under his eye. The one Tommy had given him. I wanted to lick it, to kiss it, and to tell him everything was going to be okay, but I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to ruin the moment with words. So instead, I shifted a little, raised myself the smallest of amounts, and then he was inside of me. Ecstasy. With a shudder, I squeezed my knees against his sides and absorbed the pleasure.

After a few moments, he started to move. Slow. Easy. Up and down. In and out.

My hands flattened on his chest.

His body continued to lift and fall, his hands now possessively gripping my hips.

My mouth lowered to his, and gasps of pleasure escaping through open-mouthed kisses filled the room. It was hard to concentrate on kissing him when with every slide of his cock there was a glorious press against my clit.

The pleasure kept building.

Higher and higher.

On the edge, I needed more. I pushed upright and rode him. Faster. Harder.

Eyes locked, he fucked upward and I rolled my hips.

Over and over.

In rhythm.

I arched my back.

My heart beat faster.

My breath rushed out.

And then I was coming.

He was coming.

It was fast.

Intense.

My body quaking in perfect spasms of ecstasy, I looked down at him. He stilled, groaned, and I could feel his cock pulse inside me as he rode out his own release. Once our breathing slowed, he pulled me to his chest and held me tightly. Kissed my head. I didn’t ever want this to end but soon, sleep pulled me under.

Early in the morning, too early, I awoke in my bed—alone.

On the pillow beside me was a note:

I had to go to New York City. Not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll be in touch.

The blood in my veins felt like ice water.

He wasn’t going to be in touch. I knew this. I felt it. Hell, I knew it from the moment he set foot inside and told me he needed time.

Still, I couldn’t stop the flood of emotions. Anger surged through me. He’d left me—again. He didn’t even wake me to discuss things. He made the decision for us to face what might never come—separately.

Suppressing any tears that threatened to spill, I pressed my fingertips to the place where his head had lain last night and said out loud, “Screw you.”

Screw you. Right, I thought with a small huff of laughter, as I was on my way to New York to bring him home.

To be fair, I’d held onto my anger for a good solid six hours after I’d read the note. I’d gone to work, tried to make it through the day without thinking about it. But then the anger began to subside and the tears fell. Somewhere around noon, I rationalized that he was scared, and the only way he knew how to deal with fear was to run. After all, he’d done it his whole life. And so had I. Moving from job to job, from country to country, trying to escape my childhood. But no more. If I wanted him in my life, I had to go get him and make him see it was time for that cycle to end. For him. And for me.