“You had his shop searched. You could have stopped this fight, but you didn’t!” I cry.

“I didn’t make that call,” he mutters, but it’s not enough.

“I signed the affidavit for search. The judge must have issued the warrant. I was so busy with everything that I didn’t even notice. If I had, Shelby…”

“No!” I scream. Crumbling against his chest, I lose myself in the sobs that wrack my body.

He doesn’t fight me or stop me from touching him, even as my nails scratch his skin. He just holds me as I cry.

“I’m going to fix this,” he mumbles against my head. “Let me take you home, Shelby. You can’t drive like this. First thing in the morning, I will fix this.”

“The ambulance is on the way, Rafe. You have some serious cuts on your face,” one of the officers says.

“Cancel it. I’m fine,” he argues.

Without an answer, he pulls me to the parking lot. I make him let me drive my car, and we leave his bike parked in the empty lot. It doesn't even register to me that it’s not a safe place to leave a motorcycle like that, but he doesn’t seem to care. I don’t speak to him the entire way home. I let my tears fall. Thinking of Ezra being processed at the station, getting a mugshot, sitting with those criminals, going through all of it again, it all breaks my heart into two.

How could I let this happen? He told me to get close to Rafe to get revenge, but somehow, we ended up at the bottom again.

Looking over at the man in the driver’s seat, I can’t find it in me to hate him again, no matter how hard I try. I know deep down he didn’t mean to hurt me, but I’m still so angry with him, I want to hurt him. This love and anger I’m feeling is tearing me in two.

When we get the apartment, he stands awkwardly at his door, waiting to see where I’ll go. At this point, I know I’m not making clear, smart decisions. The heavy weight of these emotions has made me numb, and I feel half-alive as I push into his apartment.

Desperate for something to wake me up, I walk into his kitchen to pour myself something to drink. He’s watching me from the counter as I swallow down the glass of wine in one long gulp, burning my throat as it goes down.

Without speaking, he stands between me and the bedroom. The look on his face is apologetic and pitiful. My heart is shattering for him, through all of his pain and his trauma, but once again, I’ve walked into my own. Because of him, I’m hurting again, and it feels so fucking unfair to love someone who does nothing but hurt you. I don’t hate him for it. I hate myself.

“I need to bandage those cuts,” I mumble, moving toward my apartment to get the first aid kit I have there.