“Was that part of Knox’s persona?” When I remain silent, he shakes his head. “No, Knox vanished after the first eleven days, didn’t he?”
I stare down into the coffee, watching cream swirl in lazy patterns across the surface. The mug warms my palms, offering comfort I don’t deserve. All those mornings, the soft scratch of charcoal on paper while he slept beside me, my fingers tracing his features on the page because, even then, I knew I needed to preserve that small sliver of happiness.
“You never let me see what you were drawing,” he continues, his voice soft in the quiet bathroom. “But I’d find charcoal dust on the sheets, on the pillowcase. Sometimes on my skin, where you’d touch me after.”
I shudder at the memories, at the pieces of me he holds out in offering, asking me to test their fit.
“It’s weird to bring coffee to someone in a bathroom.” The ceramic mug burns my palms, steam curling between us, drawing temporary lines to connect us despite the distance.
“I figured you were having a mental breakdown and would be in here for a while.” Ezra shrugs, the movement rippling acrosshis bare shoulders. “Thought you might appreciate the caffeine while spiraling.”
His attempt at humor falls flat between us, and I sip the coffee to avoid responding, the bittersweet liquid coating my tongue.
Ezra tilts his head, watching me. “Did you ever finish that piece? The one you said wasn’t good enough to sign?”
My cup freezes halfway to my lips. He means the charcoal drawing I was working on the morning before I ran the first time. A study of him sleeping, one arm thrown above his head, face softened in dreams. I’d spent hours on it, trying to capture the boyishness only revealed when he slept.
One of hundreds of incomplete drawings of him.
“Why are you doing this?” I gesture at the collar around my neck, desperate to redirect us to safer ground.
Ezra crosses his arms, muscles shifting beneath inked skin. “It’s a reminder of who you belong to when you run again.”
“So sure, are you?”
“You’re panicking in the bathroom,” he points out. “I’d like to believe you’ve stopped running, but we both know you haven’t. I hope you do soon. My patience isn’t infinite.”
A humorless laugh escapes me, the sound harsh in the tiled bathroom. “I can’t do my job with a nape guard.” I tap the metal band for emphasis. “Half my aliases are Betas. This is too obvious. It raises questions I can’t answer.”
“A problem with an easy solution.” He moves closer, invading my space. “Stay with me through three Heats. Then I’ll remove it.”
My stomach drops at how casually he discusses permanently Marking me, as if three Heats is a reasonable request. As if becoming mated to him for life is a foregone conclusion rather than a monumental commitment.
“You’re twenty-three,” I say, disbelief coloring my words. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“And I want you in it.” His fingers brush my jaw, his touch electric even in its gentleness. “Every day of it.”
I pull back, standing to escape the pull he has on me. “You think this is about sex and pheromones and Heat cycles?” Despite my best efforts, I’m shouting by the end. “That if you keep me long enough, I’ll forget what I am?”
“What are you, Ren?” Ezra doesn’t move or raise his voice to match mine, but his stillness holds the dangerous quality of a predator deciding whether to pounce.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration building under my skin like electricity before a storm. “I’m thirty years old. I’m a thief. I’m a forger. I’m a man who’s spent his entire adult life becoming other people because being myself never got me anywhere.”
“And I want all of it.” Ezra’s handsome features harden with determination. “Every piece. Every lie. Every truth.”
I slam the mug down on the counter, coffee splashing dark across the pristine white marble. “You don’t understand!”
Ezra doesn’t move. “Then explain it.”
A frustrated scream escapes me, and I pull at the collar, needing it off because if it stays on, I can’t disappear.
When all I do is hurt myself, I wrench open the bathroom door and storm out into the bedroom where evidence of last night’s surrender lies scattered across the floor.
I grab Knox’s shirt, shoving my arms through the sleeves and not bothering with the buttons. My shoes are next, feet jammed inside without socks, laces left untied. Every movement is fueled by the need to put distance between myself and the man who sees too much, who demands too much, and who offers to accept all of me, even the pieces I don’t know.
Ezra remains in the bathroom doorway, not trying to stop me. He doesn’t need to. The collar around my neck marks me as his regardless of physical distance.
As I storm toward the exit, he calls after me. “Your car is in the back parking lot. Keys are on the hook by the elevator.”
