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“Excuse me, sir?”

I tense at the hesitant voice behind me because I know what the crew member is going to say.

“Yes?” I force the word out.

“She refused to accept it again, sir.”

I sigh. Burned bridges are aptly named for a reason. It’s why I took steps to ensure mine are well and truly burned by leaving Keely alone in my house with nothing but aDear Johnnote penned with a dash of senseless cruelty. At the time, I’d no doubt whatsoever that I was doing the right thing. The specially crafted gift was the full stop that should’ve punctuated our brief, hyper-charged association.

By her not accepting it, things feel unfinished.

I grimace at the barefaced lie I’m force-feeding myself. It feels unfinished because I’m suspended in a limbo of my own making. By sticking around, and not heading straight to the airport once my setup on the yacht was done, the hooks I ripped from what remained of my tattered life are finding me again, like parasitic magnets seeking freshly mangled iron.

“What exactly did she say? Repeat it, word for word,” I demand as I stare unblinking at a far distant shoreline receding in the darkness.

I hear an uncomfortable shuffle, but I care very little for the crew member’s sensibilities. I grip the railing and stare into the dark churning waters that trail theIL Indulgence. All I care about is finding a balm to this insane gnawing in my stomach. Even if it’s through second-hand words that’ll no doubt attempt to put me in my place.

“Are you sure, sir?”

I remain silent.

“Umm… she said, umm…” He clears his throat. “‘Tell that motherfucking fucker to take his motherfucking parting gift and shove it up his motherfucking ass. And if he tries one more fucking time to return it, I’ll personally make sure the chef serves him arsenic in his next fucking meal, so I can fucking watch him die a miserable fucking death.’”

Laughter barks out of my chest. I turn around and lean against the railing. Daniel, the guard and crew member assigned to me, is standing in my master suite’s living room with the black box in his hand and a chagrined look on his face.

“Right. I guess after six attempts in three days, I should take the hint, huh?”

He looks embarrassed for me and shuffles some more. “I guess…”

I nod, despite feeling the twist of the knife. “Thanks, you can leave it on the table,” I say.

He hurries to place the box on the console table near the cabin door, then pauses. “Same time tomorrow, sir?”

I shake my head. “No. I think it’s time for a more… personal approach.”

He nods eagerly, even though he looks puzzled. “Okay. Well, if you need anything else, sir, just let me know.”

He hurries out and my gaze swings to the box Keely left behind four days ago when I all but kicked her out of my house in Monte Carlo. I burned the note after discovering it on the floor the next day, even as I reeled with a tinge of guilt for the nastiness I glazed the note with.

That lingering guilt alone should make me rethink this doomed path. That and the fact that I woke up in a cold sweat next to another human being for the first time in almost six years, and then proceeded to open myself up to the lethal cocktail of rage and grief.

I should be making a swift and decisive retreat.

Because if those reasons aren’t enough, as of yesterday, there’s Cassie. And my mother. Gluttons for my brand of punishment. Or architects of their own special strain of Stockholm syndrome. A fucked-up type of delusion, which makes them think that letting me—and the vileness that inhabits my soul—get close enough to them will somehow heal all of us.

It doesn’t matter how many times or how many ways I demonstrate my singular lack of care for what they think, they always come back for more.

My gaze lingers over the black box as my mind focuses on the one woman who’s holding fast to her decision not to come back for more.

I finger my phone with the full knowledge that I should accept her decision. But I know I’m going to ignore the warning flashing in my brain. I draw it from my pocket.

Subject: My Gift

Got your message. Shame on you. It’s not polite to refuse a gift.

—Mason

I goad because I’m certain it’s the only way I’ll get a response. Her reply pops into my text box a few minutes later.