God, she was desperate for him: She wanted to hurl herself right into him and get knocked out by the impact. She wanted him to be the brick wall that she slammed into. She wanted to be senseless and reeling and out of touch with her reality . . . because of him and the sex he threw off like a scent and the wild ride he would be.

Yeah, sure, it wouldn’t last. And when she came to, she was going to feel like hell. But in this electric moment, she didn’t care about any of that.

“Isaac—”

He backed off. The moment she said his name hoarsely, he not only moved away, he pulled out of the vortex.

Pacing around, he rubbed his short hair like he was trying to scrub his brain raw, and the physical distance gave her a clue about how she would feel in the aftermath if she ever were with him: very empty, vaguely nauseated, and definitely ashamed.

“That won’t happen again,” he said roughly.

As his pronouncement hung in the still air between them, she told herself that she was relieved she wouldn’t have to deal with the sex stuff.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd . . . the throbbing between her thighs told her that was a bald-faced lie.

“I still want you to stay,” she said.

“You never give up, do you.”

“No. Never.” She thought of the number of times she’d tried to pull Daniel out of his tailspin. “Not ever.”

Isaac’s face was ancient as he looked across the kitchen at her, his frosty eyes nothing but pits of darkness. “Word to the wise. Letting go can be an important survival mechanism.”

“And sometimes it’s a moral failing.”

“Not if you’re being dragged behind a car. Or being pulled down a rat hole. Sometimes to save yourself, you have to get out.”

She knew they were getting close to his truth and she kept her voice as steady as she could. “What are you getting out of, Isaac. What are you saving yourself from?”

He just stared at her. And then . . . “Where’s your security system.”

The deflection was a disappointment, but the concession that he was staying was a win of sorts. And as she took him to the front of the house, she pulled herself together as best she could, even though her knees were loose and her skin overheated and her mind spinning.

There was a terrible familiarity to the way she felt, one that she refused to dwell on . . . but might well bring up to her dead brother when she saw him again. Daniel never spoke of the night he had died, or all the self-abuse that had gone on before that. Maybe, though . . . they needed to talk about everything.