She closed her eyes for a long blink and then told him the truth. "I don't know. You scare me."
He looked up at the ceiling, and when he returned his gaze, he had masked his anger. "You would've opened the door earlier."
It wasn't a question. He stated the obvious. She nodded. Despite her better judgment, she knew deep in her soul she would've let him in. Then she would've regretted it. And even later, she would've missed him when he left. At that point, she was part of the problem.
She stepped around the couch. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah." He held up his hands as if seeing their condition for the first time.
"What happened?"
"I—he scoffed harshly—visited my past."
"I don't understand." She crossed her arms. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine." He stood taller. "It doesn't matter now becauseyoucalled me."
She stepped closer. "You're not making sense."
One side of his mouth lifted, the side that wasn't split open, and he shrugged. "You're right. I should go. I'm not the type of man for you."
In the silence, she stared at him. Half of her wanted to agree with him, and the other half wanted to understand why he believed they weren't good together.
Truth be told, she'd experienced something wonderful last night. She was afraid of letting him slip away.
Her feelings contradicted everything her brain told her.
Her mother, despite the inconvenience of raising a daughter, told her often how being involved with a man more powerful than her would suck the life out of her. She had no idea who her father was—her mother took that secret to the grave. But whoever he was, he must've hurt her badly because her mom died believing that one man had ruined her life, and she let Aubrey know that she was the result of that awful man.
She would not sell her soul to the devil or Serge.
Serge broke away from her gaze. "Goodbye, Aubrey."
She watched him walk out of her life. Proud and strong, he carried himself as if he'd battled his demons tonight. Why he'd shown up at her house bloody and broken, she'd never know. She chewed on her bottom lip.
From all the research she'd done on him, he'd grown up on the streets since he was six years old. Just a baby. That had to have some lasting effects. Some serious PTSD or addiction problems.
She hurried to the door and grabbed the handle before he could shut it. "Serge?"
He turned.
"Take care of yourself, okay? Put some ice on your—she pointed to her face—you're going to have a black eye tomorrow."
He stiffened and seemed to study her. Whatever he thought confused him, for he leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. It was not a peck, nor a practiced move that conveyed thanks for cleaning up his face. No, he laid his lips on her skin and lingered there. Then he inhaled deeply before pulling away.
"Lock the door," he whispered. Then he walked away from her again.
His leaving wasn't a break-up. They weren't in a relationship that required a formal goodbye. She leaned against the closed door. If what they had was one night of great sex, then why was her heart breaking?
