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XIX VI.

19 6.

My chest stutters, because no. No way he has that date tattooed onto him. A wave of memories flood through my brain, not allowing me enough time to hold them back. I see everything I’ve hidden in a box at the back of my mind, everything I only I allow myself to think of once in a while. And at the forefront isthat date.

That date I’ve thought about for years, going over and over it, wishing for something different. The nineteenth of June—the night we met.

“What is that?” I ask quietly.

He glares at me, but I watch the moisture pool in his eyes. The blood has dried on his skin and his chest is still flushed with sweat. “Rowan,” he says, voice painfully low.

“What the fuck is that?” I ask him again because he has to be messing with me. This can’t be real.

“What do you think it is?” he asks, his voice just a whisper.

The knife slips from my hand, clattering against the floor. The sharp sound echoes, cutting through the room. I shake my head. “No.Fuck you, Alex.”

And then I’m out of there, barely able to keep my breathing level. My hands are shaking when I get to my car and as hard as I try to swallow down my anger, I can’t. But I don’t think I’m angry at him exactly. I’m angry at myself for failing. Because again, I’ve fallen for it—another one of Alex’s lies.

Chapter Eight: Alex

My eyelids feel heavy, like lead weights pulling them down as I fight to open them. My head pounds relentlessly, and my body feels alien—unresponsive and sluggish, like I’ve been drugged. It isn’t the unfamiliar weight of my limbs that jolts me awake, though; it’s the sharp, insistent pounding at the door.

Blinking through the haze, I lift my head and realize I’m sprawled on the couch in my living room. I rake a hand through my hair, last night’s events crashing back into me all at once.

Rowan left me tied to the chair, and after what felt like an eternity of struggling, I managed to shuffle close enough to a drawer to grab a knife with my mouth. It took another half an hour to cut myself free. Too drained to make it to my bedroom, I collapsed right here on the couch, still in my torn shirt and jeans.

The pounding on the door comes again. Panic grips me—Rowan. Is he back? My pulse quickens, but before I can move, there’s a faint scratching at the lock. The door swings open, and Halle stumbles inside, her eyes wild.

“Oh my God,” she gasps, freezing as her gaze locks on me.

I can only imagine what I look like: dishevelled, a nick on my neck from Rowan’s knife, my shirt half-ripped and barely clinging to my frame. Her horrified eyes dart to the knife, the disassembled gun still on the kitchen table, and then back to me.

“What the hell happened?” she demands, her voice shaking.

I raise a hand weakly, a feeble attempt to reassure her. “I’m fine,” I manage, waving her off.

Her expression says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “It’s almost one in the afternoon. You weren’t answering your phone. Kane said you were supposed to go to an interview with him this morning. He called me to check on you.”

Shit. I’d completely forgotten about the interview for our new case.

“I—” I start, but she cuts me off.

“What the hell is going on with you?” Her voice softens, but her eyes are still full of concern as she watches me push myself upright, every muscle in my body screaming in protest.

For a moment, I consider brushing her off again, chalking it up to a bad night, but I’m too tired to come up with a believable lie.

“Rowan,” I say finally, my voice careful.

Her brows knit for a second before they lift again. “Rowan? As in Rowan Vasilyev?”

I nod, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. I shuffle to the kitchen, filling a glass of water from the jug and downing it in one go. I grip the edge of the sink, closing my eyes for a moment, waiting for the ache in my body to dissipate.

“What? Why? I thought you hadn’t seen him in years?” Halle comes to stand behind me.

“I hadn’t,” I admit, turning to face her. “Not until about a week ago. I asked him for help.”

God, it feels like a lifetime ago.