Still, he palms the back of my head and eases me against his chest.

He holds me to him like he can protect me from judgmental eyes, and I cling to him without protest. He’s torn me down to the studs—emotionally, physically. I should have known it was him the second my eyes locked with him in the ballroom.

And maybe . . . maybe some small, twisted corner of my heart knew all along.

Letting my gown drop down around my legs, the FBI agent who arrested my father brushes his nose along the shell of my ear. “Run, sweetheart. Because if you don’t leave now, I’ll never let you go.”

I close my eyes.

Stagger backward on weakened legs.

Just before I turn away, I meet those golden eyes one last time over my shoulder. Reid Paxton stands with one hand braced against the wall, his cheeks flushed color. He looks like a man holding on to a single thread of control when it’s a battle he has no hope of winning. The outline of his still-hard cock against the seam of his slacks is blatant, and my mouth goes dry. Would he growl my name if I dropped to my knees for him? Does he even care that he’s turned my world upside down and shattered every illusion that I’ve ever erected?

“Ask me if I hate you,” I whisper.

The fingers pressed against the wall curl into a fist. “Do you hate me?”

“No, Reid.” A sob threatens to choke me. “I hate myself so much more.”

Chapter Four

Laela

“I made a mistake.”

Seated at her office computer with views of Central Park behind her, Stassi glances up at me with a scowl. “Pretty sure that you don’t ever make mistakes.”

“Clearly, there’s a first time for everything.”

Shoving away from the door, I cross the room and collapse into the chair opposite my sister. Damp snow still shimmers like dewdrops in her chestnut hair from her walk to work, and I try to summon some guilt for bombarding her this early in the morning but come up blank. Desperate times call for desperate measures and all that.

Because it’s been the two of us against the world for as long as I can remember, I don’t bother asking for permission before swiping her coffee off the desk. The hot brew scalds my tongue, and I don’t know what it says about me that I eagerly welcome the burn with a hiss of gratitude. Coffee might not fix everything but the sting of pain does what forty-eight hours of pacing back and forth in my apartment couldn’t—it briefly erases the memory of Reid.

“For the record,” Stassi says, tightening her bouncy ponytail like she’s mentally shoring herself up for my emotional purge, “I told you not to go.”

I set the thermos down on the desk. “Lucian asked me.”