What she and I need now is distance. As much of it as we can get.

But as I get off the elevator on my floor, I sense a change in the air right away. I freeze in front of my door when I notice something hanging from the doorknob. It’s a soft, black rope about two feet long. It’s tied gently in a knot and hangs on my door without anything else. Not a note or a warning.

I know it’s from her immediately.

Why she left it is a mystery.

Is she trying to seduce me? Or is this a joke to her?

Without thinking, I grab the rope from the door and open my apartment, almost nervous that she’ll be there waiting like some sort of crazy fucking stalker, but my apartment is empty. I toss my keys and phone on the counter and stare at the rope in my hands.

It’s soft, and there's just enough there to bind something together, like wrists or ankles. It’s not enough to tie someone to a bed rail or anything.

Before I can think about it anymore, I toss it on the dining room table and move toward the bottle of bourbon waiting on the counter. The first glass goes down easily.

I’m just pouring my second when there’s a gentle knock on the door.

Here we fucking go.

“Come in,” I bark, and I wait as she steps into my still-dim space. I only turned on the one small light by the door when I came in, so I’m bathed in darkness by the kitchen.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask, pointing to the item she left on my door.

“I did my research,” she says, stepping toward me. There’s something different about her today. She’s walking with more confidence, and it’s sexy as fuck.

“What research was that?” I ask, taking another drink.

“Some people are turned on by having control, and others are turned on by giving the control to others.”

Jesus. She thinks I’m into this bondage stuff. I roll my eyes with a groan. “I’m no dom, Shelby. That’s not—”

“I know you’re not,” she whispers, not backing down. As she takes another step, her face eases into the dim light from the moon, and I nearly lose my breath. She’s wearing makeup, or at least more than usual. Her hair is held back at the nape of her neck, and the look on her face says she’s being serious as a fucking heart attack.

“I have a suspicion about you, Rafe, and I don’t expect you to admit or not, because this thing you’re holding back from isn’t because you want to.”

My eyes narrow at her, and I have to wet my lips because of my mouth going dry. Then, my eyes travel downward, and I notice she’s in nothing more than a silk dress that comes just low enough to cover the apex of her thighs.

The perfection of her appearance feeds a hate deep within me. She’s so fucking beautiful it makes me angry. And not only on the outside, but her soul is so goddamn pure that I can’t even look at her. She’s coming here to help me, like she constantly does, and it doesn’t make sense. It’s just easier to despise her for it than accept that I deserve it.