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What the fuck.

What the ever-loving fuck?

Even three days after I stormed out of Ethan’s apartment, I can’t wrap my head around what happened. One moment I was thinking about making out with him on my homework, and the next we were arguing and I walked out.

Why did I do that?

After what I went through to get him, to make him realize what he wants and allow himself to have it and give himself to me…I just walked out and told him to figure things out?

Honestly, I still feel the same way. I want Ethan to figure out what he wants and understand that if he doesn’t want to do the ritual, he simply can’t fight this fight with me.

At the same time, I hate being away from him.

Does this mean it’s over? Itfeelsover. It felt very final, but I’m not sure if I’m the one who ended it or he is, or if it was mutual.

I’ve been trying to distract myself for the last few days, trying not to look and see if Ethan texted me.

If he comes back, he comes back. That’s the whole point of telling him to figure out what he wants, right? If I’m part of that, he’ll let me know.

But, damn, am I really giving up so easily? If he just never messages me again, will I really leave him alone? The man I can’t stop thinking about? The man I finally felt something other than lust and pain with?

I bang my fists on my steering wheel, then lean forward and place my head against it.

“Such a fucking idiot,” I growl.

Me or him?

I’m not sure anymore.

It hurts. More than I thought I could hurt. More than I thought I could feel, after everything I’ve done and everything I’ve seen.

I don’t want to feel anymore, especially not this ice-cold emptiness in my chest.

As I sit in my car in the driveway of the family mansion, I look forward through blurry vision.

There are two ways I can go: to Ethan’s to watch him and see if he’s hurting such as much as I am, or somewhere else, somewhere familiar and comfortable in the most emotionless way possible.

If I go to Ethan, I might see that he’s better off without me. Selfishly, I choose the other way.

I drive until I reach the innocent and average-looking house in downtown Montcove. The lights are still on, shining through the gaps in the living room curtains. The porch light flicks on as I pull into the driveway. I don’t need to knock. All I need to do is get out of the car.

“Well, it’s sure been a while, Mr. Romano,” the man standing on the porch tells me.

“You know I hate that, Adrian,” I mumble as I get to the stairs.

“I know.” Adrian smirks at me. He stands there above me with a cigarette between his long, agile fingers. Adrian’s hair, rusty red and speckled with gray, is messed up by the breeze.

“So what are you here for, Dante?” he asks as he takes a drag.

“I need you,” I say simply.

He eyes me in the glow of the porch light and then nods, guiding me inside. I follow him. The door is closed, but not locked, behind me.

“You could have called,” Adrian says. He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt. He’s still wearing his work clothes—dress pants, shirt, and sweater vest. The style of the vest reminds me of the sweater Ethan wore to Tessa and Yvette’s ritual.

I swallow hard. “That would give me time to think.”

“Ah, I see.” Adrian steps closer. He’s shorter than me, but not by much, and skinnier and softer, but not as much as Ethan. His eyes are the same color, but not the right shade. And he’s older…quite a bit older.