And then there was the masochist in me. The naive girl who believed Rafe was alive and waiting inside. I shook off that clinging hope and crossed the threshold.

“Show yourself,” I demanded, voice nowhere near as steady as the hand I used to grip the gun. That I knew how to handle. But as I curled my finger around the trigger of death, I questioned if I could kill another human being. No amount of time spent shooting at the range could prepare me for taking someone’s life. “Just leave me alone!”

A tall shadow emerged, and I stiffened, my finger twitching on the trigger.

“Leaving you alone isn’t an option, sweetheart.”

A noisy gasp escaped my lips, and the gun clattered to the floor, forgotten as the shadow morphed into the form of a figure moving toward me, hands reaching. He pushed me against the door, then his mouth was on mine, his tongue forcing my lips open and dipping inside. Seeking. Conquering.

I kissed him back, lost to delirium, to the blend of our moans as our tongues tangled. My world spun from the familiar scent of him, from the solid feel of his chest underneath my palms. He broke away, but his hungry mouth veered to my cheeks, his tongue darting out to catch my tears.

The reality of his presence bubbled in my throat, and I forced his name out with a sob. “Rafe.”

“Fuck, how I’ve craved your tears.”

My whole body shook in his arms. I clawed his skin just to convince myself he was here, but all the grief I’d tried burying crashed through and collided with the euphoria of finding him alive in my house. I screamed at him, pounding my fists on his chest, straddling the line between sane and delirious.

“How could you leave me? I fucking hate you!” As quick as my fury rose, it seeped from my bones, and I slumped against him, burrowing my face in his rough denim jacket as I sobbed.

He hefted me into his arms and strode to the couch. We tumbled onto the cushions, where he crouched over me and entrapped my wrists above my head.

“I didn’t want to leave.”

“Why did you? Why?”

“I wanted you to be safe from…” He let out a sigh, shoulders slumping. “I wanted you to be fucking happy.”

“Do I look happy?” I said, glaring at the shadow of his face.

“You look pissed.”

“You let me think you were dead! It’s been six months. Six months!” If he hadn’t pinned me, I would have slugged him. I fisted my hands, aching to slam into his face, to make him feel the slightest bit of pain, even if it would never compare to my own.

He leaned down, his hair brushing my temple. “My head was a mess. I wanted to give you a chance at something normal.”