I hate when my hair gets unruly. It makes me feel powerless. If I can’t control my own hair, then how can I control anything in my life?

It’s frustrating not to have any of my things here—clothes, underwear, eyeliner. I keep thinking that if I go back to Chicago it will all be there waiting for me, but I know that’s not true. It all burned up. The only thing waiting is the enormously daunting task of filing an insurance claim for everything I lost. Some of which can never be replaced.

At least I didn’t have anything truly priceless at my place. Nessa got grandmother’s ring when she married Mikolaj, instead of it going to me as the oldest daughter, as was tradition.

I don’t regret telling Mom to give it to her.

At the time I was certain I’d never get married. I mean I am still certain. And it always suited Nessa better. She loves things that are beautiful, vintage, and sentimental. Things that have history. That’s why she loves living in Mikolaj’s ancient mansion. I think the place is creepy as fuck, but she adores every inch of it.

Anyway, the ring was meant for her.

What would my perfect house look like?

I thought it was my condo. Because it was a space that belonged only to me.

Now the idea of buying another place like the one I just lost . . . it doesn’t excite me. In fact, it makes me feel a kind of empty dread that I don’t quite understand. I loved that apartment—why don’t I want another one? Am I afraid of being there alone? Afraid of someone pouring gasoline under my door again?

I don’t think that’s it. But I feel confused when I try to think what I want in the next month, or the next six months. Usually my path forward is so clear. I know exactly what I want to accomplish.

All of a sudden I’m strangely lost . . .

Finishing the messy ponytail, I brush my teeth and wash my face, and then head downstairs.

Raylan’s already sitting in the kitchen with a mug of coffee in front of him and another steaming mug in front of the empty chair next to him.

“Is that for me?” I ask him.

“Of course.”

I sit down and take a sip. The coffee is rich and dark.

Raylan looks more himself than ever. His scruff is almost becoming a beard. There’s something wild and animalistic about his hair, the way it springs up thick and black from his forehead, the way his dark brows look devilishly pointed above his bright blue eyes, and the way his facial hair outlines his lips and jaw like bold strokes of ink.

I can’t imagine him without that hair. It’s as much a part of him as the blue of his eyes, or his wolfish white teeth, or the shape of his hands resting on his blue-jeaned thighs. His hands are large, rough, calloused, and scarred in spots. A shiver runs up my spine, looking at them. One of his hands tenses slightly against his thigh, as if it can feel me looking at it.