“I know you're going to try to run again,” he murmurs into the side of my neck. “And I’m not going to let you get away. That's why my dick was so hard when I burned all your shit.”

He rubs his nose along that weird erogenous zone he found last time as he says this.

Cue the brain fuzz. What he’s telling me, what he’s admitting—it’s so wrong. Not to mention crazy. But his wrong, crazy words stir something they shouldn’t below my waist.

And even though I’m not particularly religious, I have to shove him away with a, “Not today, Satan. I've just brought life into this world with nothing except a bunch of sanitized towels and old ladies for assistance. I'm not going to let you take this feeling away from me. So, if you'll excuse me.”

I don't actually wait to be excused. I walk around him and start toward Meemaw’s house.

But I only get in a couple of steps before he stops in front of me again, blocking my way forward.

“You still mad at me, angel?” he asks in the same tone he used when he asked if I was curious about him back before we….

Don’t think about that, Amira! It was the biggest mistake of your life.

“Yes, I'm still mad,” I answer him. “Why wouldn't I be?”

That cocky smile turns up his lips again. “You still haven't asked why me and Meemaw went through such drastic measures to keep you here.”

“I don't think your why really matters.”

His lips twist and turn like he’s just barely keeping himself from laughing at me. “If that's true, why don't you ask me about it then?”

I regard him for a few frustrated beats.

Why is the charming devil who was handcuffed to my bed finally choosing now to make a reappearance?

I hate that I’m so confused by Waylon.

And I really hate that I’m actually curious about the answer to the question he’s baiting me with—even though it shouldn’t matter.

“Fine,” I say with a huff. “Why did you do it?”

He tilts his head and looks to the side. “That's a long story. And I'm not good with words. At least, I’m never as good as I want to be with them when it comes to you.”

My heart skitters.

Still, I harden my voice to point out, “You asked me to ask you about your why. But now you're saying you can't tell me?”

“No, I couldn’t tell you before,” he answers. He regards me with an almost apologetic look. “But I can show you now. It's finally ready.”

“What’s finally ready?” I ask with a weird mix of frustration and curiosity.

“You’re going to have to come with me to find out.”