“That’s part of why I can’t have you. But you’re not about that. You’re not them. You haven’t shared that with me. I still know it down to my balls. You know it too ’cause you live it. So why won’t you let yourself have me?” he asked.

You’re not them.

Yes, he’d figured me out.

“Sebring—”

He lost it.

“Nick!” he thundered, giving me an abrupt, rough shake.

“Nick,” I whispered, pressing my hands into his chest, not to get away but in a gesture I hoped was soothing.

He stilled and the tumult of his eyes calmed.

God, just that, his name and a simple touch from me and he calmed.

Was he that attuned to me?

“Who burned you?” he whispered back.

Oh no.

I closed my eyes.

“Livvie.”

My throat clogged.

No one called me Livvie.

No one.

Livvie didn’t exist.

Not for anyone.

But me.

“Baby, who burned you?” Nick pushed gently.

I opened my eyes.

“Who burned you?” he pressed.

I stared into blue.

“Who burned you, baby?”

“I can’t be with you,” I told him.

“Who burned you, Livvie?”

“I can’t be with you, Nick.”

“Who burned you?”

“I can’t be with you because my father is a piece of shit and I care about you too much to have his stink settle on you.”

Nick went silent.

But the room went wired.

He heard me and he got me.

Every word.

He got me.

He knew who burned me.

He knew, my father burning me, there was no me. There was just Vincent Shade’s daughter, and me not even having me, I couldn’t give myself to someone else.

I felt the electricity snap against my skin, but for Nick I had to force out my plea.

“Let me go.”

Nick didn’t move or speak.

I slid my hands up and curled them around either side of his neck.

“You need to let me go, sweetheart,” I whispered.

He moved then.

He slammed his mouth down on mine and kissed me.

I didn’t bother fighting it. It had been weeks since I’d seen him, touched him, heard his voice. If I couldn’t fight it to stop something from starting that I knew for the both of us was unhealthy, the need I had for him after weeks without him was impossible to beat.

So, no.

I didn’t fight it.

I kissed him back.

He moved us toward his bed.

On our way we tore at each other’s clothes. I heard ripping. I knew I popped some buttons off his shirt. I didn’t care about either.

I just needed him.

We fell to the bed partially clothed. We made frantic but light work rectifying that.

If before sex had been a battle for control for us, now it was war.

It wasn’t hungry.

It was wild. Frenzied.

Abandoned.