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Hispet.
Not to mention the fact that it was close to a suicide mission. He was heading into an enemy's house in broad daylight.
Rational Michele would have been completely opposed it—mocking the idea itself.
ThisMichele didn't know how to get there faster.
Deep down, he knew he was too far gone. The question of losing himself wasn't so much a question anymore but a certainty.
Hehadlost himself. But not in the manner he'd expected.
Instead, he'd lost everything but the sight of her.
Somehow, he managed to elude the guards and make his way to his pet's room. As he slowly pushed it open, it was to find it empty.
Pursing his lips, he tried to swallow his disappointment. Instead, he told himself it was for the best. He'd leave the items he'd bought on her desk and he'd take his leave before he did more damage, before he got himself killed for good—literallyandfiguratively. Odd how for someone who'd always chased death here he was, of a mind to avoid it—determined tonotsuccumb to it. And revenge was the last thing on his mind as he honed in on the state of his mortality.
Michele barely realized how in the span of twenty-four hours he'd thought about his revenge exactly once—when he'd canceled his meetings. And even that, in the most absentminded fashion.
At that moment, he'd only one purpose, and it had nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the future.
Arranging the bag on the desk, he lingered for a moment as he inhaled the scent that was so characteristically hers. It was so comforting, he felt like never leaving the place.
But leave he must.
With a resigned sigh, he turned to leave just the bathroom door opened.
And there she was.
He blinked, his eyes straining to accommodate to the sight before him. She was, quite possibly, more beautiful than he remembered. Which was absolute madness since he'd been watching her closely for weeks now. He knew every little inch of her skin better than he knew his own.
Yet in that moment, as she appeared before him, he wasstruck.
Simply, utterly struck.
Her mahogany hair flowed down her back, a contrast to her beautiful pale skin. She wore no make-up, but she'd never need it. Her face was the type to make poets weep with the beauty of the ineffable and sculptors obsess over angles of perfection.
Certainly, to his trained eye she was the embodiment of pathos—of that driving force that connected him with his inner artist.
She was dressed in a pair of oversized sweatpants and an equally large shirt she'd tucked in the band of the pants.
Her eyes widened as she took him in, an initial expression of terror giving way to a neutral one.
But not before Michele spotted everything—everything he'd done with his own damn hand.
"What are you doing here?" she asked in a small, apprehensive voice.
"I brought you something," he mumbled, doing his best to remain his confident, assertive self though he wanted nothing more than apologize for the brute he'd been.
Yet that was the issue.
Michele never apologized.
"Why?" She took a step forward, leaning to look inside the bag. Her brows drew up in surprise as she spotted the contents.
"Because I hurt you when you asked me not to," he said, slowly. It was completely antithetical to himself to recognize he'd been wrong—at any point.
He only knew how to stride forward regardless of the casualties or the victims of his revenge. Never once had he given them any thought as long as his purpose would be achieved.
