But she grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin. “Truth,” she coughed.

He stared down at her. And shook his head.

She started crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I’m so sorry.”

The sirens were getting closer. Flashing lights strobed through the trees at the end of the property.

He couldn’t be here.

“Layne,” he said. “I have to go.”

She stared back at him. Her eyes were piercing, alert through the tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I knew you’d run,” she said.

The words hit him like a fist. He fell back.

But she was right: He ran like hell.

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 32

Gabriel didn’t see the trees, didn’t feel the air on his face. He didn’t feel the pain in his legs, the way the cool air burned his lungs. He just ran. It took every ounce of focus to keep moving forward, to run away from Layne.

He wanted to bolt back to her, to erase that look from her eyes. To hold her hand while the firefighters turned his flames into smoke and bits of cinder.

He kept feeling the way her body had hung in his arms, lifeless.

He’d killed someone again.

Did it matter that he’d brought her back?

Emotion gripped his throat and almost made it impossible to run.

He pushed through it. Maybe his ligaments would tear and offer some piercing agony. Maybe his heart would give out and he’d collapse in the middle of the trail.

He had no idea how long it took him to get home. The four miles simultaneously felt like they took all day and no time at all. He was just suddenly at the tree line behind his house, gasping for breath with his forehead braced against the bark of an old maple.

Now he could feel the sun, bleeding through the trees, feeding energy into his skin. It still had to be early: The woods around him were silent, as if even the morning wildlife wouldn’t bear witness to his sorrow.

As if he was worth it.

The Guides were right. He should have been killed long before he could cause this kind of damage.

The morning air felt all wrong. Too crisp, too clean, too pure. He could smell the soot on his clothes.

And then he was puking, or his body was trying to, dry heaves ransacking his empty stomach. He didn’t remember falling, but his knees were grinding into the leaves and underbrush, his forearms barely strong enough to support his upper body against the base of the tree.

He was crying, too—probably had been for some time. His eyes felt raw; his throat felt like someone had him in a headlock.

And he was alone.

He put his forehead against the tree and choked on another breath. He clenched his damaged fist and slammed it into the bark of the tree. And again.