Chapter 3

Dylan set her gently on the bed.

Rainwater still clung to her lashes, and her skin glowed faintly beneath the soft lamplight, fragile and ethereal, like someone who had run too far from home and forgotten the way back.

He exhaled slowly, tugging at his ruined shirt. The smell of vodka and vomit clung stubbornly to the fabric. With a grimace, he peeled it off and tossed it into the bin.

When he turned back to her, she hadn’t moved. Her damp clothes clung to her body, chilled against her skin. For a moment, he just stood there, torn between decency and the urge to help. Then, with a quiet curse, he scooped her up again and carried her into the bathroom.

The hiss of running water filled the silence.

He adjusted the temperature, testing it against his palm before guiding her under the stream. She stirred at the touch, murmuring something incoherent.

Her blouse turned translucent beneath the water. He caught the faint outline of her figure and immediately looked away, his jaw tightening. He focused on wringing the hem of her sleeve, keeping his movements brisk and careful.

Then she lifted her head.

Her eyes opened hazy, unfocused, and full of a pain that didn’t belong to the present.

“Do a better job,” she murmured hoarsely. “If you’re going to wash me… do it right.”

Before he could respond, her unsteady fingers found her buttons, working them loose until the fabric slid from her shoulders.

He turned away sharply. “Miss… please stop. You’re not thinking straight.”

Her hand caught his wrist, surprisingly firm for someone so lost.

“Why won’t you look at me?” she demanded. “Why do you always look at her like that?”

Her voice cracked, raw. “I’m right here, Axton. Why can’t you touch me the way you touched her? Why won't you play rough with me?”

Dylan froze.

For a moment, all he could hear was the rush of water and her ragged breathing. Then her trembling fingers reached for his face, tracing it as if she could find someone else beneath his skin.

God. She was heartbreak wrapped in silk.

And he wanted her, wanted her more than he should but not like this. Not when she is tipsy and didn’t even know who he was.

“Miss,” he said quietly, “I’m not—”

The words never came.

She kissed him desperately, searching and tasting of salt and sorrow as if she could rewrite every lie that had broken her.

For a heartbeat, he stood still, meaning to stop her. But reason slipped through his fingers, drowned beneath the warmth of her mouth and the sound of her pain.

The kiss deepened before he could stop it.

Her hands slid up his chest, trembling but insistent, anchoring him to a moment he wasn’t meant to be part of. She whispered another name against his lips, Axton, and something inside him fractured.

He wasn’t that man. But for tonight, he'll let her believe he was.

When she rose on her toes and pulled him closer, he stopped thinking. The sound of the rain outside and the water still running in the shower all blurred into a haze of heat and confusion.

Her breath hitched as his restraint broke.

He kissed her back carefully, and almost apologetically until careful wasn’t enough. She pressed against him with desperation, her body trembling under the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

He pulled her into the shower with him, the water cascading over their skin. Her clothes clung, transparent and heavy, until she pushed them off entirely. He tried to turn away again, to speak, to stop this, but her voice, fragile and broken cut through him.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just… make it stop hurting.”

That undid him.

He held her like something precious and cursed all at once, giving in to the plea in her touch. The sound of their breathing filled the room, raw and unsteady, echoing off marble and water. It was not passion, it was pain dressed as need.

When it ended, she collapsed against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her breathing shallow but peaceful for the first time. Dylan stood still, his pulse still racing, shame and tenderness tangling somewhere in his chest.

He carried her out of the bathroom, wrapped her in a towel, and laid her on the bed. She was already drifting into sleep, her fingers still clutching weakly at his arm.

He reached for the bedside drawer, pulling out a small foil packet, a complementary condom, the kind hotels kept discreetly tucked away. He hadn’t even realized he’d used it in the haze of everything. But when he went to discard it, something caught his eye.

A tear.

Small, invisible at first glance, near the base.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the quiet hum of the city seeping through the windows. She shifted slightly in her sleep, a faint frown crossing her face before she relaxed again.

He rubbed his temples, his mind spinning. He should tell her. First thing in the morning, he’d explain. Apologize. Make sure she understood it wasn’t intentional.

He grabbed his phone and placed an order for breakfast in bed, hoping she’d wake up hungry.

But when morning came, sunlight slipped between the curtains and spilled across the sheets… it was empty.

The towel lay crumpled on the floor. Her clothes were gone and so was she.

Dylan stood there for a long moment, disbelief anchoring him to the spot. The room smelled faintly of her perfume, a soft, floral note clinging stubbornly to the air.

He found a folded napkin on the nightstand. In faint, uneven handwriting, it read:

Thank you. I’m sorry.

Nothing else. No name. No number.

He exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth tightening.

“Not even a name,” he murmured.

He sank into the chair by the window, eyes tracing the skyline as the morning sun rose higher. The city was already awake, indifferent and noisy, the world moving on as if last night had never happened.

But he couldn’t shake the image of her, her trembling hands, the way she’d said someone else’s name through her tears, or the way she’d clung to him like a lifeline.

Dylan Frost had seen broken people before. He’d dealt with heartbreak in every shade.

But not like her and definitely not like that.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, he knew this wasn’t the last time he’d see her.