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A car door slams nearby, making me flinch, my heart leaping into my throat.

And now? Now I’ve buried the part of me that would protect him, that would make the painful choices, and replaced her with something far more dangerous. Something that kills without hesitation and cleans up afterward with chilling efficiency.

“Damn it!” I slam my palm against the steering wheel, the impact sending a shock wave up my arm, the pain barely registering through my rising panic. A woman walking by glances at me, startled, then hurries past. I don’t know what’s happening in my own head anymore. I don’t know who I am or what I’m capable of.

There’s only one person who might have answers now.

I start the car, the engine purring to life, my decisionmade. I’ll have to face Dr. Ezra after all. After months of avoiding him and thinking I knew better, I’ll have to admit how catastrophically wrong I’ve been. The admission tastes like ash in my mouth.

As I pull out of the parking lot, my tires crunching over loose gravel, a chill runs down my spine, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. For just a second, I swear I feel someone else’s presence—not Mads, but something colder, more calculating. Something that watches and waits in the shadows of my mind, its gaze a physical weight pressing against the back of my skull.

I press harder on the accelerator, the car surging forward, as if I could outrun what’s inside me. The world outside blurs—green trees, blue sky, normal people going about their normal lives, all of it seeming unreal.

But there’s no escaping what lives in your own head. No matter how fast I drive, how far I go, it comes with me, patient and waiting.

And I’m terrified of what it plans to do next.

TWENTY-FOUR

DOMHNALL

The rich,earthy scent of Dr. Ezra's leather chair fills my nostrils as I sink into it, the material creaking beneath my weight. Rain patters against the window like impatient fingers, the gray Dallas sky pressing against the glass. I stare at the geometric pattern in the rug beneath my feet, tracing the lines with my eyes rather than meeting his gaze.

"It's been a while, Domhnall," Dr. Ezra says, his voice measured and calm. The bastard's always calm, like nothing can touch him. Like nothing'severtouched him.

I grunt in response, focusing on the steady ticking of the antique clock on his bookshelf. Each second punctuates the silence between us like a tiny accusation.

"What brings you back in today?" he asks, leaning forward slightly, the leather of his own chair whispering as he moves.

I finally look up, taking in the carefully curated office with its wall of books, the framed credentials, and the soft lighting designed to make people feel safe. To make them spill their secrets. I've never trusted safe spaces. In my experience, they're usually the most dangerous.

"Been sleeping like shite even though everything in me life's great," I mutter, my brogue slipping out despite my efforts to contain it. My overnight in Austin was shit. The business part was fine, but I spent all night pacing. There's been this nagging sensation that something's off between me and Anna. But maybe this is just what normal feels like. I sure as fuck wouldn't know, and what if I fuck it up because I'm being an insecure little bitch?

On your knees, dog. What a pathetic little bitch.

I grit my teeth together against his voice in my head. The rain intensifies, drumming harder against the windowpane and mirroring the pounding in my chest. "Better than great. As near as a lad can get to fecking perfect. So I don't know what's wrong with me. Thought maybe you could help."

Dr. Ezra waits, his silence an invitation I resist accepting. The scent of his coffee---dark roast, no sugar---drifts between us. My own cup sits untouched on the side table, growing cold.

"Anna's happy," I finally continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "We're planning the wedding. She's...present. All the time now. No more switches. No more wondering who I'll wake up beside."

I pause, running my thumb over the ridged scar on my palm---an old wound from a broken bottle when I was fourteen. When I next speak, my voice drops lower.

"But...?" Dr. Ezra prods.

"But something feels... off. Like the quiet before a storm rolls in."

"Have you discussed this feeling with Anna?" he asks, his pen poised above his notepad.

I hate that fucking pen. Hate the scratching sound it makes as it chronicles my weaknesses.

"No," I say shortly. "She's been through enough. I'm not going to burden her with my paranoia."

"You assume it's paranoia."

"What else would it be?" I snap, my fingers digging into the arms of the chair.

Dr. Ezra's gaze is steady, penetrating in a way that makes me want to look away again. I don't. I stare back, a challenge.