That doesn’t mean he wants you to betogether.
No, I’m sure he only wants to continue whatever it is we started at the penthouse. Except, why does it feel like so much more than sex? I’ve never been in a situation like this before, let alone in a relationship—not that this is what it is—but my brain struggles to navigate the unchartered territory all the same. Regardless of our situation, the thought of him wanting to be with melike thatinfiltrates my mind, planting dangerous desires.
It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re not staying.
Burying any thoughts of fictional relationships as deep as I can, I only hope my heart can handle whatever we’re doing without shattering completely when I have to go. Although, a part of me already knows no amount of hope is going to be strong enough.
My fingers dig into the leather-bound journal in my hands, calling for me to lose myself in the pages. I can almost feel the words moving under my skin, wanting to get out. But then my gaze shifts to the bathroom as I think of the man beyond the closed door.
He’sreal.
My journal might temporarily quiet my mind when it’s breaking apart, but I don’t want to live in a fantasy anymore. I don’t want to wonder when the safety net of delicate illusions will fall out from under me, leaving me plummeting into darkness.
I peel my fingers away from the leather with a shaky exhale before forcing myself to place the journal back in my bag. It takes more effort than I thought, but once it’s out of my sight, a sense of freedom washes over me—proof that maybe I can hold myself together without it.
The sound of the bathroom door opening draws my attention, so I pile the rest of my belongings into my backpack, leaving my journal buried at the bottom. I’m just zipping up my backpack when Sebastian exits the bathroom.
Dressed in a plain T-shirt and the grey ribbed skirt—one of the few things I’d taken from the bag Lauren had given me—I stay seated as he seeks me out.
My gaze flicks between Sebastian and the bathroom behind him—memories of what we did in there last night bombarding me. My hand moves to my stomach, covering the scars I loathe, although I find that the feeling isn’t quite as strong as it was. Because of him—the gorgeous man walking towards me.
It still feels surreal—all of this. I might have lived the past four years partly in a fantasy world, but when it collided with reality, I never thought there was a chance we could end up like this, that he could see me as anything other than hisstalker.
I drop my bag to the floor beside me and stand from the edge of the bed as he draws nearer to me. Sebastian had handed over my bag when we got back to the bedroom. It had been sitting next to the bedside drawer on his side of the bed, leaning against the wall. I hadn’t seen it earlier, not from the position I’d been in, but not wanting to wake him up, I hadn’t looked too hard.
It was a risk giving Sebastian my bag last night, but he’d been almost imploring me to trust him, and at the time, I didn’t really have the strength to resist him.
“I have to head out for a couple of hours. You should get some more sleep,” he says, brushing his thumb across my cheek, but I know I won’t, knowing what awaits me when I close my eyes. Just the thought sends a shudder through me.
I’m completely exhausted from last night. My mind feels like it’s hanging on by a thread, and I doubt it would take much for me to break down into a panic attack again. However, the possibility of having another nightmare as bad as the one last night is enough for me to fight the fatigue and stay awake.
“Mason should be here soon. I’ll wait until he gets here,” Sebastian says.
“Mason?” I ask a second before Sebastian’s phone pings with a message.
“Speaking of. Rest, Grace,” he says and heads for the door. Wanting to do anything but sleep, I start to follow after him, but he stops and spins around before I can catch up. With two steps, he’s back in front of me. Before I can figure out what he’s doing, he has me scooped up in his arms, and I let out a sound of surprise at the unexpected move.
“Sebastian, what are you doing? I can walk.”
“Your ankle is never going to heal,” he says, and a dark look crosses his eyes.
“What are you thinking? I ask, suddenly breathless.
“Nothing.” He looks away from me.
“You are, tell me.”
“I’m thinking I should restrain you to the bed, so you can’t injure yourself anymore,” he says, his voice rough and eyes dark when he brings them back to me.
I swallow hard.
“Oh…”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, and any of the dark lust in his eyes a moment ago is replaced by guilt.
“No, I…” I know everything I told him about my past caused the change in him, and if it were anyone else, I might react differently, but I can’t say I feel threatened by his words. If anything, I’m a little curious. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean…”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”