“And three—the biggest mistake I’ve ever made was letting you walk out of the kitchen the other night without understanding exactly how I feel and why I said what I said.” His hand squeezed mine, and tears filled my eyes. “And that’s really saying something, because most of my high school extracurriculars weren’t exactly legal. If I’d gone to college, I could have majored in Bad Decisions. If there was a title behind my name, it’d sound something like, Kristopher Daniels, Professional Fuckup. But I’ve never made a mistake as big as letting you walk away from me.”

“I...” I had to swallow, then start over, my bare feet buried in a tangle of his sheets. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to make sure you understood all of that, so that if you walk away from me again, I’ll at least know it wasn’t because you didn’t know how I feel.” He blinked, then let me have the piece of tape now stuck to both of us. “The rest of it is up to you. We’ll do whatever you want.”

I wasn’t sure what I wanted from Kris. All I knew was that I liked the way he looked at me. And I liked the way his voice sounded when he said my name. And I loved how the same fingers that could mercilessly aim his gun and squeeze its trigger could also brush hair off my shoulder with the ghost of a touch, or cradle my fingers between his own during that first step into the darkness.

We finished hanging the targets in silence, while I thought about what he’d said, and what that might mean for us, and how the only reason I’d had to walk away from him—the secret of my birthright—was no longer an issue. And when that was done, I stood on the floor at the foot of the bed, staring up at the targets, thinking about how brutally different my life had become in the past three months.

Ninety days earlier, I couldn’t have imagined myself like this. Childless. Sterile. A decent shot with a handgun, if unproven in action. Possessing more power, money and authority than I’d ever dreamed possible—yet unsure how to use any of them. Or even whether I should.

“Want to talk about it?” Kris said, but when I turned to look at him, I only saw his profile. He was staring at the targets—evidence of the new me. That she was all I had left.

“Talk about what?”

“About the cooler. Whatever happened.”

“No. Thanks, though.” I circled the bed and started straightening the sheets and blankets, just to have something to do with my hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice was deep. Gruff. As if he was holding back more than he was actually saying.

I fluffed a pillow and propped it against the headboard. “Are any of us?”

He shrugged, and the gesture looked tired. “Valid point.” Kris was quiet then, watching me while I picked up clothes from the floor. When I bent to pull a dirty sock from beneath the bed, he stepped forward and took my hand, tugging gently until I stood, very aware of how close he was. Of how our hands were still touching. “I want to ask you for something.” Now he was whispering, and his gaze kept volleying between my eyes and my lips, as if he wanted something from them both. “And you’re going to say no, and that’s okay. But I have to ask. I need to know.”

“Ask,” I said, and there was something in his eyes. Something I almost didn’t recognize, coming from him. Some fragile kind of vulnerability.

“Can I see it? Please?”

“What?” My heart thumped.

“Your scar.”

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. “Why?” I whispered, when I could speak again. That wasn’t what I’d expected. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected.

“So I can understand.” He was serious. There wasn’t a hint of a smile anywhere on his face, but that vulnerability was as raw as I’d ever seen it. “I want to know who you are, and I can’t, until I know what you’ve been through.”

“You already know.” Yet knowing wasn’t the same as truly understanding. And he’d already shown me his scars—an entire notebook filled with them.

I headed for the door, and he thought I was kicking him out—I could see that in the slump of his shoulders and the regret behind his eyes. But then I closed the door and leaned against it, and he exhaled.

Kris’s brows rose in silent question. I nodded, and he crossed the room slowly. His gaze didn’t leave mine until he knelt on the floor in front of me and my heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. For one long moment, he stared at the material covering my stomach, and the pervasive anger and underlying sense of loss I’d been living with for months warred with something new inside me. Something fragile and...hopeful.

Then he put his hands on my hips and looked up at me, and I held my breath. Kris looked so different from this angle. From above, his shoulders bunched with tension, his jaw tight. He looked strong, but sad.

He lifted the hem of my borrowed T-shirt slowly and his thumb trailed over my skin beneath the cotton. I held my breath. He was very careful, like my wound might still be open and bleeding literally, as it bled still in my heart.

He inhaled when he saw it, dark pink and smooth to the touch, and when he looked up at me, I saw my own horror reflected on his face.

Tears filled my eyes again when his hand covered my scar, low on the right side of my abdomen, trailing beneath the waist of my shorts. His hand was warm, and I felt it all around the wound, but not in the scar itself. The scar had no feeling, which was odd, because it seemed directly connected to my heart, which hurt all the time.