She’d needed to be with him, for him to be with her. Present. Engaged. Connected. But it hadn’t worked in the end, had it? Other than those brief moments when he was coming, when he looked into her eyes and saw her. Felt her. And now she felt even worse than she had when she’d arrived.

A slow tear made its way down her cheek, but she didn’t dare brush it away. She didn’t want him to know. She bit her lip to stifle any sound, forced herself to stop the crying.

How many tears had she cried over Mick Reid? How many times had he turned away from her? And yet she still kept after him.

It was beginning to be humiliating.

She couldn’t be the only one with all her cards in the game. And damn it, it wasn’t a game to her. It was her heart, a heart that had carried these wounds for far too long. She’d never been able to fall for another man—really fall, although she’d tried a few times—because Mick had always owned her heart.

He still fucking did. But maybe she was only helpless against it if she chose to be.

Hours passed while the same ideas whirled through her mind with the force of a tornado. When she checked the clock at five thirty in the morning, she still didn’t have the answers. But one thing she knew: continuing to do this—accepting Mick’s crappy behavior toward her—wasn’t getting her anywhere.

She needed distance to figure things out. To decide if she was willing to accept this from him or if she was stronger than that. And maybe only once she’d gone—gone of her own accord and not because Mick needed space—maybe then he’d realize what was at stake.

She listened for his breathing, wanting to make sure he was asleep. She couldn’t handle another conversation. He always managed to talk his way around her, or seduce her into forgetting what it was she wanted to talk about. The man was too clever for his own good—certainly for hers. She slipped quietly from the bed, found her clothes, her purse, and left the warmth of Mick’s body, his bed, behind. But she knew that warmth would never be anything but temporary if she didn’t go.

Have to go.

She wiped the tears away as she started her car, the engine a loud rumble in the still, early morning air.

The sun was rising as she headed home, the sky a wash of pink and gold. It was lovely. Heartbreakingly beautiful.

Like him.

She was tired of Mick breaking her heart. Maybe it was his turn.

She wanted to feel some satisfaction at the thought. But it was Mick, and she loved him. Knowing he might hurt when he woke up alone only made her own pain more wrenching.

It was still the right thing to do.

Sometimes, being right sucked.

*   *   *

MICK WOKE WITH a start. He reached for Allie but found only cool sheets next to him.

“What the hell?”

He ran a hand over his head, rubbed his eyes. Maybe she was in the bathroom? The kitchen?

He glanced at the clock as he got up. Seven in the morning. Dusky light shone from behind the curtains—another hazy spring day in New Orleans. It was probably already warm out there. Why did he feel chilled?

He found the bathroom door wide open, moved into the kitchen. It was empty.

“Allie?” he called, knowing there would be no answer.

He grabbed his sweats from the living room floor, pulled them on, then moved around the apartment looking for a note, then his cell phone. No voice mail, no texts. He went into his office and booted up his computer, tapping his fingers on the desk while he waited.

Maybe she was sick? But she would have left him some kind of message or even woken him up to tell him. Wouldn’t she?

He remembered in a small flash the look on her face when she’d shown up at his place last night. She’d looked . . . haunted. He damn well knew why. He just didn’t know what the hell to do about it. But now she was gone. She should at least have had the grace to tell him she was going. Not that he’d treated her any better all those years ago, in college, when he’d split in the middle of the night.

Tears sliding down her cheeks—he’d been too damn caught up to notice. Hell, he was still hard. After the hottest sex he’d ever had in his life. Hot because it was her. But he’d made her fucking cry! What kind of sick fuck was he?

Something in his chest tore, even as her warm body pressed against his, her arms winding tight around his neck. He swore he could see through the gaping hole that had opened in his chest to the darkness that lay underneath, a darkness he’d unleashed on Allie. Allie, of all people!

He held her tight, whispering to her—all the things he thought she might need to hear, feeling like he was flailing around, trying to find some way to make it right.

“Shh, Allie girl. It’s okay.”

Christ, what a liar he was.

“Mick . . . I just . . . I didn’t know. I had no idea this was . . .”

She cried harder, her hot tears falling onto his chest.

Nothing would make it right. Because he was all damn wrong.

Fuck.

He tried to shake it off.

Was this payback?

He deserved it—there was no arguing with that. But he’d have thought better of Allie.

He paced the apartment, the wood floors cold beneath his bare feet.

Fuck it. This was inevitable, anyway. They’d never been meant to be together.

Except that the dull, thudding ache in his chest told him otherwise.

She belonged to him.

No.

“Fuck,” he muttered, stalking into the bedroom and grabbing a shirt and his running shoes, shoving his feet into them.

He needed to run. Just fucking run this off—the thoughts and emotions he had no control over.

He grabbed his keys and a small water bottle and headed downstairs, his shoes making a slapping sound on the old wood treads. He shot out the front door and went into a full run as he hit the streets, the lack of warm-up making his muscles go tight, but he needed it. If he slowed down, his brain would catch up with him.

Can’t handle it right now. Not now.

His bad leg began to ache right away, but he didn’t care. He kept running, his feet hitting the damp pavement—it must have rained at some point in the night. He could smell it all around him. Damp cement, the scent of the old bricks and plaster on the buildings he passed. The green scent of the flowers and plants and weeds that grew in pots on porches and balconies, in every possible crevice. He drew in a deep breath, wanting the damp and the green to cool his burning lungs. He should have started out slower, he knew. But right now all that mattered was running as fast and hard as he could.

Ha. That was fucking obvious.

Don’t think about it. Nothing is going to make sense now.

Not his anger at Allie for taking off. Not his anger at himself for being an asshole to the woman he loved.

Fucking loved!

Still. Always.

Allie.

That was never going to change. What had changed was that she finally understood what he was and wasn’t capable of. And she was telling him loud and clear she wasn’t having it. He didn’t blame her.

Except that he did.

He was fucking mad. Hell, he was in a rage.

He needed to fight. Needed to purge the animal from his body, from his Goddamn soul. And he knew exactly where to go.

He was about to change direction when he realized his feet had already taken him down Dauphine to Canal Street. He crossed Canal, still quiet this early in the day, and Dauphine turned into Baronne. He ran on, his lungs on fire, toward the Pontchartrain Expressway and the row of warehouses that housed the private fight club hidden in the underbelly of the city.

He headed south, following the line of the freeway, his mind empty of everything now but his absolute need to hit something, anything. To be hit back. He needed it—to feel his fist connecting. To have some of the piss knocked out of him. Needed not to think, to feel. And nothing made him go numb better than fighting.