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  The sight of her acted like a balm to his edginess and took his breath away at the same time. Moonlight bathed her in a milky white glow, accentuating the stark black of her long hair and the vivid green of her eyes. She didn't say anything, just stood there, her hands jammed into the pockets of the heavy coat as she stared up at him.

  A minute went by, then another. Enough for the chilly December air to seep into his bare chest and settle into his bones. And she still didn't say anything.

  "You shouldn't be here." Shane finally broke the silence, his voice rough with scotch and stress and regret. Always regret.

  "Are you going to make me stand out here and freeze, or are you going to let me in so we can talk?"

  "You need to go home, Chloe."

  If even a small part of him expected her to listen, he'd be disappointed. But he hadn't expected it, wasn't surprised when she simply pushed right past him and headed downstairs.

  Shane hesitated before finally closing the door. He followed her downstairs, closing that door as well so they wouldn't disturb his aunt and uncle. Then he stood there, his gaze finding her in the darkness. She was standing near the sofa, her body nothing more than a silhouette in the unlit room.

  A few seconds later, light from the end table lamp pierced the darkness. He blinked, squeezing his eyes closed against the brightness, and swore under his breath.

  "Fuck, Chloe. Turn it off."

  "Watch your language. And not until I see what kind of damage Wyatt did to your face."

  He opened his eyes, immediately closed them again when Chloe walked toward him. He heard her swift intake of breath and started to take a step back, silently praying she wouldn't touch him—

  Gentle fingers followed the line of his nose, the touch featherlight yet dangerous. So fucking dangerous.

  Shane inhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet of the room, and moved away from her. It didn't matter because she moved with him, so close he could feel the heat of her breath against his neck. So close he could hear the heavy beating of her heart.

  She touched him again, gently brushing the side of his jaw with the flat of her hand. "Does it hurt?"

  God, yes. More than she could imagine. Feeling her touch against his skin when he'd craved nothing else for the last five years burned him like the rays of a thousand suns. But that wasn't what she meant.

  He finally opened his eyes and stepped around her, moving back to the sofa. Where was his fucking shirt? He needed to find his shirt and put it back on. Button it up. Wear it like a shield against the temptation that was Chloe.

  "I'll be fine. I've had worse in a game."

  "That's not what I asked. I asked if it hurt."

  Shane clenched his jaw, winced at the sharp pain that throbbed with the motion. "No."

  "Liar." Chloe's smile was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it came. He ignored it, ignored his body's reaction to it.

  "You need to go home, Chloe."

  She shrugged out of the heavy coat and tossed it on the leather recliner, ignoring his huff of protest.

  "Chloe, I mean it. You need to leave."

  She ignored him, her steps strong and sure as she closed the distance between them. Her head tilted back and she stared up at him, her sculpted brows pulled low. Anger flashed in her eyes. Confusion. Bewilderment.

  And stubbornness. How had he forgotten how stubborn she could be?

  "Why?"

  "Why?" He nearly choked on the word. "Because you do. You being here isn't—"

  "No, not that. Why did you let Wyatt hit you? Why did you just stand there like that?"

  "You really have to ask me that? After what I did to him?"

  "Shane, you didn't do anything to him!"

  Something exploded inside him. Rage. Regret. Shame. Every single emotion he'd kept bottled up for the last five years. The horror of every single nightmare that visited him in his sleep, forcing him to relive that night.

  He stepped toward her, using his height to intimidate her. Using his size to push her back. "How can you say that, Chloe? How can you fucking say that? He lost his leg because of me. He lost his chance at turning pro because of me. Everything he ever wanted in life, every single fucking dream he had—I destroyed it. Me. So don't stand there and fucking asking me why I let him hit me! He should have done more. I deserve more."

  Emotion clogged his throat, shredding the last words so they came out as nothing more than a desperate croak. He spun around, unable to face Chloe. Unwilling to let her see what he'd tried so hard to hide the last five years.

  Unwilling to let her see the kind of man he really was.

  He ran a shaking hand across his eyes, sucked in a ragged breath, and waited. She would leave now. She'd grab her coat and hurry up the stairs. Rush to open the door so she could escape. Slam it behind her, thinking of nothing else except that desperate urge to get away from him.

  But there was only silence. No sound of feet hurrying across thick carpet. No sound of a door opening and closing.

  Just...silence.

  Arms wrapped around him from behind, their touch warm. Offering comfort. Offering strength. Shane shifted, tried to step out of her hold, but she wouldn't let him.

  "Shane, it wasn't your fault."

  "It was. I was driving. I—" The words died in his throat, ending in a hoarse choke when her fingers slowly traced the scar on his back. The line was thick and ragged, the flesh puckered and shiny even after all these years. The scar started in the middle of his left rib cage and ran down his back, stopping at the base of his spine.

  Chloe's touch was gentle, almost soothing as she traced the scar. Back and forth. Soft. Slow. "It was an accident, Shane. An accident. It wasn't anyone's fault."

  "I was driving—"

  "Because Wyatt had been drinking. If he had been driving, all three of us would be dead. He wouldn't have been able to handle the spin on the ice the way you did. The car would have gone over the cliff. You have to know that."

  Shane stiffened, finally stepped out of Chloe's hold. Then he turned and faced her, forcing himself to voice the admission he'd kept buried all these years.

  "Maybe it would have been better that way. Because there are days I can't live with myself, knowing what I did to Wyatt."

  Chapter Six

  There are days I can't live with myself, knowing what I did to Wyatt.

  The words sliced deep, hurting her more than she expected. Not so much the words but the way Shane had said them. Flat. Emotionless. It was that lack of emotion that scared her, because she had heard it before. Not from Shane, but from Wyatt. Three years ago, when all his progress had come to a halt. When he'd actually lost progress. When he'd given up. He'd said the same thing to her then—that it would have been better if he'd died in the accident. That death would have been preferable to losing his leg. His dreams.

  Chloe stepped closer, placed the palm of her hand against the middle of Shane's chest, right over his heart. She could feel it beating, strong and steady, maybe just a little fast. But alive.

  She couldn't imagine him any other way. Couldn't imagine what she would have done if he had died that night. It had been one thing to lose him personally. When they had drifted apart after the accident, when they'd finally succumbed to the stress of the aftermath, to the guilt and regret. Then later, when he'd been picked up by Baltimore and moved away.

  Yes, she had lost him. But he was still here. Still alive. Agony sliced through her at the thought of it being any other way. She forced the pain away, forced the awful fear to the back of her mind, locking it in a deep, dark corner, never to be seen again.

  "It wasn't you, Shane. Why can't you see that?" How many times had she told him that? How many times had her parents and his aunt and uncle told him that? Even the police, once the accident investigation had concluded. She'd been there, by Shane's side, when they told him he wasn't at fault. The roads had been icy and the car had simply spun out of control. Speed wasn't a factor. Alcohol wasn't a factor. And Shane's handling o