A shudder jerked her shoulders visibly forward. The sharp intake of breath to replace the one he’d obviously stolen was audible. His words had caused her physical pain. He hadn’t meant to take it that far. There had to be a better way to end it than this. She’d just caught him unprepared in the middle of the night.

“Dammit. Wait.” He reached for her arm but she backed out of reach, glaring at him as if she’d finally realized what a horrific son of a bitch he actually was.

“No, you’re right.” Her eyes lifted to the night sky and she shook her head as if she expected it to fall down around her. “I don’t know what I was thinking. God, I’m so stupid. I mistook this for something completely different.” She stared at him like he was a stranger, making what looked like a valiant effort not to cry. He watched her wounds turn rancid, transforming pain to anger. “Oh well. It was fun while it lasted. Hope you enjoyed your vacation from your demanding life as a poor, pitiful rock star.”

Now it was his turn to wince. That shit hurt. She knew why he was here, what had led him to this.

“Oh, I did. Very much, thank you.” He leaned on his doorframe for support as she ran from him, dragging his beaten, bloody heart behind her.

He wanted to chase after her. But it was better this way. For her at least.

Miranda had given her two armfuls of work to keep her busy. And made her promise to come out for drinks soon. She knew she looked like hell.

She hadn’t slept or eaten much at all. She just kept replaying his words, the dead stare in his eyes, the brutality in his voice. Her brain was stuck in an endless loop, replaying her last interaction with Van Ransom.

She settled in at her desk, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand—transcribing documentation for more recorded therapy sessions. She had to listen to the first few seconds of each recording to find out the patient’s name, date, and session number so she could place it in the right spot on the digital record. It was pretty tedious, but needed to be done. After over an hour of organizing the recorded sessions, she was starting to fade. Until Miranda’s monotone voice on the recording said his name.

“Session number thirteen for client Vander Ames Ransom. Client Alias: John Walker.”

As Miranda read the date, Stella’s heart faltered then sped in her chest until she felt like it had relocated itself to her temples.

Okay, Stella. That’s all you needed to hear. Tag the file and save it to the list. Then move on.

But she waited, listened to Miranda greet him and ask him how he was feeling. She asked all the same questions on the checklist. She wondered how many times a day he got asked those questions. No wonder he’d found alternate ways to answer them for her.

His deep voice was low. Haunted. It filled her headphones, but it might as well have been filling the room. It raked over her, dragging her down into the memories of his warmth and weight pressing onto her, into her. Her arms ached to wrap around him, to hold him as he released the heavy burdens he carried inside her.

“Mr. Walker, as we discussed in our previous session, you hear things. Hear the sounds from your childhood and of that day coming back to you. Can you expand on that for me a bit?”

“I’m not sure what there is to expand on. My sister was abused. I couldn’t protect her. She killed herself.”

Killed herself? Stella clamped a hand over her mouth at his admission. She didn’t want it to be true. It hurt so badly, especially after what she’d said. She’d known his sister was dead, but this was agony, hearing his sweet strained voice reliving the details. She listened as he continued his solemn story.

“When I’m sober, certain things trigger the memory of her body being pulled from the river. Sometimes a roadie will drop a piece of equipment and I’ll remember the way the chains sounded clanking together as they lowered them into the water. Gears grind backstage, and I see them pulling her out. Or the silence gets too loud, like it did as soon as I saw her bruised, bloated body lying in the grass.”

Stella’s hands itched to rip the headphones out of her ears, but his voice was magnetic, pulling her in. He detailed more memories of trying to save his sister, the many ways he’d tried to find her after they were separated, and Stella folded into herself. He hadn’t told her she’d committed suicide—or that he’d had to watch them pull her body out of the water.

“So when the music doesn’t drown it out, I get drunk. Or high. Or whatever works. But it got out of control. When I’d start to come down, the noises would be worse, the visions clearer. So I’d do more, more of whatever the hell I was doing at the time. Long story short, I nearly OD’d a time or two. So now I’m here.”

Once the recording ended, she tore the headphones from her ears and held her head with both hands. She was disgusted with herself. A sob wrenched itself from the depths of her stomach, from her soul it seemed.

“Hope you enjoyed your vacation from your demanding life as a poor, pitiful rock star.”

How could she have said that to him? She’d been raw and vulnerable. Weak and wounded from the encounter with her parents. She was a damaged human being. There was no doubt about that. But that was no excuse. She’d known enough to know that this wasn’t a vacation for him. Known details of the visceral pain and brutal past that had led him here. To her.

Miranda had told her. He was fighting a much bloodier battle than anyone else here.

Maybe he didn’t feel for her the way she felt about him. She’d obviously mistaken lust for love. But she was a grown woman. That was her fault and not something she should’ve taken out on him. Even if he had already moved on to fucking her least favorite nurse.

Stella rubbed her side, her ribcage still sore and stinging from what she’d done the night before.

For whatever reason, their paths had been meant to cross, meant to intersect. And even though the way he’d ended it had been a crushing blow to her only recently discovered soul, it was worth it. She wouldn’t erase the memories of every single second they’d shared for anything.

She had no idea how she would’ve handled the life-altering confession from her parents without the strength he’d given her to hold on to. She might’ve offed herself just to end the internal chaos and confusion, to keep from dealing with the truths that didn’t fit in her previously compartmentalized life.

That was a terrifying thought, much like standing over a gaping abyss.

The woman she’d been before him might not have been strong enough to even process it. So she owed him an apology for the awful things she’d said to him. And a thank you for giving her something she would cherish for the rest of her life. The ability to open herself up to her emotions—to feeling and loving, to hurting and healing.

She stood and exited her office. Heading to Van’s residence, she prayed that if he had moved on to his next conquest, she wouldn’t walk in on the middle of it.

He recognized her knock. The damn woman had come knocking enough times that he’d memorized it. Fuck.

The urge to get loaded and screw someone else had taunted him all night. He was fucking famous. It would take one phone call to get him out of here. But he’d stayed. Because leaving her even a second before he had to felt like a death sentence. The next time he got high would probably be the last.

“You really do enjoy pain and punishment, don’t you, sweetheart?” He forced a sneer onto his face as he opened the door.

“More than you know, Mr. Walker.” Her eyes held a challenge his dick rose to meet. Christ.

“That what you’re here for? Or did we skip an answer on my survey again?”