Page 16 of Last Chorus

But I did. I fucking did.

Didn’t I?

My erratic thoughts clash and reform, providing a new, unwelcome dimension to my acceptance that Wilder will always be a part of me. Because if that’s true, then parts ofmewere displaced as he grew. I’ll never be able to heal the gaping cavities his roots dug inside me.

He’ll always be my weakness.

My forever wound.

A small, pained moan shocks my ears. My gaze flies around the room for a good five seconds before I realize the sound came from me. When I do, I make another one—a hoarse laugh.

I’m officially losing it.

I have no idea how long it’s been since Martin left to find Clay. There are no clocks in the room and my phone was left at home. Is it close to midnight yet? Why hasn’t Clay come?

Please get me out of here.

Despite my desperate desire, when I finally hear the soft creak of the doorknob, it’s not relief I feel but panic at the thought of Clay seeing me like this. Heady adrenaline shoots through my veins. I wrench upright, throwing my legs off the bed and tossing the blanket to the side.

My stomach swoops as the door swings inward, then drops like a lead weight when it isn’t Clay who stepsinside but a stranger paradoxically more familiar than my own reflection.

Wilder gives me a slight, close-lipped smile and shuts the door behind him. “Hey.”

Speechless, I watch him sidestep a few paces before sliding to the floor. He braces his arms on his bent knees, drops his head back to the wall, and closes his eyes. The thick tendons in his forearms jump beneath black-and-gray tattoos as his long, elegant fingers move restlessly, playing a song only he hears.

Less than five feet of carpeted floor separate our toes.

“I fucking hate parties,” he mutters.

I blink hard, half-expecting him to disappear, but instead he becomes more real.Excruciatingly so. Airbrushed memories of him collide with reality and tear something deep in my chest.

At twenty-five, he was almost ethereally beautiful. Now he’s… devastating. Somehow both rougher and more refined. Potently masculine, mature, andhealthy.Smile lines crease the skin around his eyes, the shadows of his dimples now permanent fixtures, the slope of his clean-shaven jaw even sharper. His body has changed, too, still lean but more densely muscled, his light olive skin radiant.

Movement brings my gaze to his throat. As heswallows, the wings of a gorgeously detailed moth ripple in mimicry of flight. He shifts against the wall, sighing, and a hint of his midnight-rainstorm scent reaches me. Seductive and threatening. A siren’s haunting call.

I want to light him on fire.

I want to suck him in like water and drown.

He’s thirty-one years old.

It’s unbelievable, suddenly. So wild a notion that I choke on the urge to giggle, the pressure of holding it in nearly unbearable.

“W-what are you doing?” I finally ask. My voice is ragged. Breathy and dismayed.

Dark lashes parting, his gaze lowers to my face. His expression is inscrutable, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes. One that sends more adrenaline into my system.

“Taking a break from all the drunk, annoying people outside. What areyoudoing?”

The casual familiarity in his voice pulls the plug on my thoughts. They pour away in a torrent, leaving a buzzing silence behind.

Wilder’s lips curve to one side, deepening the adjacent dimple. “Better close your mouth before you catch a fly.” His eyes flicker down. “Legs, too.”

I snap my knees together, simultaneously grabbing the discarded blanket and bringing it over my lap.Embarrassment sears my face and chest—another shock, nearly nauseating in its intensity.

I can’t remember the last time I blushed.

“Get out,” I whisper.

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