“Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” I reply quickly, lifting my bottle in salute to him as I turn and walk away, glad that my legs are solid enough that I don’t stumble as I head back toward the house.

The sounds of the guys are coming from the kitchen when I drag my tired ass through the door, but I head straight upstairs, showering the sweat from my skin and then redressing in soft short shorts and the tank with the wide armholes that flashes my bralette. The memory of the way Sebastian looked at me when he growled and insisted I changed—refusing to let me leave the house in something this revealing—fills my head.

Brushing out my wet hair, I leave it loose, not bothering to try to blot the water dripping from the ends and making the fabric of my shirt almost opaque. I couldn’t one-hundred-percent say that I haven’t dressed specifically for the purpose of provoking Sebastian, though I’ll never admit it out loud. Something inside of me needs to prove that he still gives a crap, but I don’t understand why. What does it matter if he still wants me or not? I don’t want to be the object of his obsession. I just want to know that he can’t get over me so easily, that his impact on me and my life was more than just a passing fancy he can forget about the moment he loses interest.

My phone beeps with a text and I immediately expect it to be him, only when I glance at the screen, it’s not, and I force down the wave of disappointment that sweeps through me.

Evan: Hey Sis, Bastian said you’re having dinner with us **Shocked face emoji** that’s awesome. Come down, Hunter says it’ll be ready in five minutes.

My stomach churns uncomfortably at Evan calling me sis, I know technically I am his stepsister now our parents are married, but it feels alarmingly similar to Clay saying I felt like their sister because I was Sebastian’s and he was their brother. He said they felt protective of me, because they’d watched me, which I suppose is kind of sweet; or as sweet as stalking gets anyway.

When I pass the full-length mirror on my way to the stairs, I take a moment to inspect my reflection. Long toned legs, tiny shorts that cling to my ass, a glimpse of my stomach, the loose tank that shows the hot-pink bralette beneath. My cheeks are rosy and my skin is beginning to tan from the Florida sun, my eyes look wide and alive for the first time in too long to remember.

My mind refuses to think about why I look different, why I feel more awake, more animated than I have in years. It can’t be him. Sebastian Lockwood is the cause of all my misery and pain, he can’t be the reason why I’m finally coming back to life.

Pushing the disturbing thoughts to the back of my mind, I ruffle my wet hair until it resembles more beach tousled rather than drowned rat, and then head downstairs, ignoring the butterflies that burst to life in my stomach.