Page 89 of The Ache That Stayed

Do I regret it? Not for a second.

I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. And more.

But then fear took over. Because as far as I knew, Roxanne wore her heart on her sleeve. And she always chose others before she chose herself. And if I stayed close, guilt would’ve eaten her alive. She needed to process everything as much as I did.

So I did what I always do. I left. Rode until the night burned out. I thought about the ring again. About breaking something. About bleeding her out of my system. But I knew this time it wouldn’t work. And no woman would even compare to take the edge off, so getting a release was out of the question.

Because it was her. Still her. Always her. Etched so deep I couldn’t tell where she ended and I began.

There was a difference between wanting someone and not being able to function without them. I’d crossed that line.

The monster in me had always wanted destruction.

Violence. Blood. Control.

But around her, it did something far worse. It calmed.

Like she’d reached into the dark and taught it how to kneel.

And now that it had tasted peace in her hands, it would tear the world apart before letting her go.

The wind and rain cleared the fog in my head. By noon I was back at the cottage. Waiting. This time, I wasn’t backing down. I’d fucked this once, walking away when it mattered. When I could have had her without a guilty conscience.

But I wasn’t doing that again. Not to her.

I checked the clock again like a lunatic even though I knew damn well what it said.

5:03 p.m.

Five minutes later I checked it again.

5:04.

Roxanne should’ve been home. She was never this late. Never without texting.

It was fine, I told myself. Sometimes she got lost in her work, losing track of time. She’d be here any minute now.

I told myself not to pace. Lasted about ten seconds before I was moving again. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal, pulse hammering, every ugly thought clawing at me.

Did I push her too far? Or did she run?

The thought arrived before I could stop it. I shook my head in denial. She kissed me back, just as hard. I know she did. She’d chosen to. She’d woken up, regretted the kiss, and left.

My chest tightened. That wasn’t fear.

Maybe recognition. Or a premonition.

Then where the hell was she?

By six I’d called her six times. Straight to voicemail. Every damn call.

By 7:30 p.m., the storm outside had gone from irritating to biblical—rain smashing the windows sideways, wind howling like the old gods were pissed off.

And me? I’d stopped pretending I wasn’t worried.

Fear did ugly things to men like me. It turned instinct into violence.

By eight, I drove to the manor site because I couldn’t sit still another second. Callum had returned her car in the morning before heading back to the site. So she should’ve been there.