I drop her, stepping back, my eyes like lasers on the collection of bruises on her arm. My jaw goes into overdrive, my teeth gritting, my breathing going to shit once again. It’s something else I can’t control where Ava O’Shea is concerned. This newfound anger.

There are two instructions running on repeat through my head. Just two.

Find that bald prick.

And kill him.

She quickly covers the source of my rage, her hand settling over the marks. It’s a pointless effort. They’re imprinted on my mind. “I’m fine,” she says quietly, shifting awkwardly before me. “I need to get back to work.”

I stare at her, this beautiful, oblivious woman, and something uncomfortable shifts inside of me. Guilt. Except this guilt is unfamiliar, yet it hurts just as bad. It turns my stomach. It makes me want to punish myself. Knowing she’s hurt kills me, whether physically or emotionally, and as I stand here, looking at the woman who has knocked me for six, I have the most unbearable realization.

I can hurt her the most. I’ve only ever hurt the people I’ve loved. I could kill her spirit. Her faith. Her trust.

That woman out there, she’s falling in love with you, Jesse. Like every other fucking woman you’ve had. Except probably harder. Probably faster. And that is plain fucking cruel when she doesn’t know who you are.

I try to ignore John’s words. I can’t. Because while I’m sure this woman can fix me, it could break her in the process. And, Jesus, I can’t do that to her.

I move back, dazed, confused, and feeling even more broken than I have before.

She’s a cure. I’m a disease.

Walk away. I should let her have the man and life she deserves. I’m not that man. And I can’t give her that life.

My anger returns tenfold, and my feet carry me back, away from her, my body working in line with my brain. I can feel Ava’s confused expression resting on me.

I. Am. Beyond. Help.

I was a fool to think even for a moment that Ava could save me. Because if saving me means breaking her, I’m out.

I blink, my eyes stinging, and turn, walking away from her.

I fight with my urge to look back, and lose.

She looks dazed. Confused.

It’s better than fucking destroyed.

I don’t bellow my despair to the heavens until I make it back to my car.

17

I don’t remember my drive back to The Manor. Massive Attack played, and when Angel came on, I turned up the volume to its maximum, trying to drown out my thoughts and the image of her looking at me, lost and stunned.