I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to cry right now.

“Nora—”

“I made her coffee,” I cut him off, unwilling to let him spew whatever excuses would come out of his mouth. “She drinks it with a lot of creamer. Cashew creamer, to be exact. I know this because she told me. And because there was cashew creamer in your fridge.” I forced my eyes shut for a split second before I continued. I ignored the searing pain in my side, mentally cursing my body for dealing with trauma by convincing me I was dying.

I took a deep breath, and black spots danced in my vision.

“Now I know this relationship of ours has been somewhat of a whirlwind,” I ground out, “but I also know that we have been together longer than it takes creamer to expire.” An angry tear escaped then. But I convinced myself it was because of the pain spearing into my side.

Rowan was close to me. Much too close, almost completely pressed into my side as I tried my best to focus on the dough.

“You don’t answer the door in the middle of the night on your own, Nora.” His tone was hard, eyes narrowed in anger.

“Don’t turn this into more alpha bullshit about me being weak and vulnerable, and you being the strong man establishing routines for my safety,” I snapped.

Rowan exhaled a long breath through his nose. “You know that’s not what this is.”

“Yes, you’re right. This is about the woman who was knocking on your door, expecting you. And sex.” I kneaded my dough with a little more force than necessary.

Rowan moved into my periphery, not letting me dismiss him and focus all of my attention on my dough.

His hand fastened around my wrist. “Nora.”

I sighed, staring at the hand and debating trying to fight him. It wouldn’t end well. Plus, if I continued taking my anger out on my dough, my scones would suck.

“I wasn’t a monk before I met you, Nora,” he told me, not unkindly. His eyes were hard, though, resolute. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. I fucked other women. A lot of them.”

Though I was aware of that—it was pretty darn clear he wasn’t a virgin our first time—it was hard to hear it. I guessed that made me weak or overly romantic or whatever.

I didn’t like to think about his hands on other women’s skin. Him looking at them the way he looked at me, him speaking to them in those raspy tones.

Rowan was watching me carefully, no twinkle to his eyes. There was a purposeful distance between us that made me feel cold all over. I wrapped my hands around my torso, hugging myself.

“It’s important you know that. Know the kind of man I was before you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I came back from the war fucked-up. Without vital parts of me. I wasn’t capable of being the man I am now, with you.” His eyes contained so much emotion, it was hard to maintain eye contact. “Fuck, with any other woman, I don’t think I would be the man I’m able to be with you.”