Page 74 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I thought I'd known regret. I thought I’d already lived through my personal hell. Turns out, I had no fucking clue.

Because hell wasn’t a courtroom. Hell was her voice, low and sweet and whisperingstay—and not meaning it. Hell was that damn three-times rule and the way she said it like shemeantit. Like we hadn’t just set the entire world on fire together.

I spent the weekend in bed. Not out of laziness. Out of pure, soul-crushing avoidance. My phone buzzed a few times—some meme from Liam, a work update from Mia, even Adrian checking in—but I ignored most of it. I couldn’t deal.

I wasn’t even eating properly. The fridge held a pathetic bottle of mustard, half a loaf of bread, and some forgotten eggs. I’d never felt poorer in my entire life—and it had nothing to dowith my wallet.

It washerI missed. Her scent. Her voice. The way she rolled her eyes but secretly liked my jokes. The quiet strength in her. The softness she tried so hard to hide. Every damn piece of her.

And fuck, if I could afford alcohol, I would’ve drunk myself into forgetting that I’d ever touched her. Kissed her.Wantedher like this.

But I couldn’t afford shit. So instead, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling like a fucking cliché, my wolf restless and angry under my skin. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t stop wondering how I was supposed to walk into that kitchen on Monday and stand across from her like none of it ever happened.

Like she hadn’t ruined me with a kiss. Like I hadn’t whispereddon’t ask me to stay unless you mean foreverand meant every syllable. Like she wasn’t already the only thing I wanted.

Gods, I was screwed.

And Monday was coming fast.

Rain started pouring in the afternoon.

Perfect, really. Nothing says emotional wreck quite like staring out a cracked window while the sky falls apart above you.

I sat on the floor of my nearly empty apartment, back against the wall, knees drawn up, watching water trail down the glass like it was some indie film and I was the brooding, misunderstood antihero. Only I wasn’t misunderstood. I knewexactlywhat my problem was.

Her name was Ada De La Vega.

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything proper since I left her apartment. Just a sad, over-salted ramen soup I nuked in the microwave last night like a damn college freshman. Not very dignified for someone who trained at one of the top culinary schools in France. Not very fitting for someone who used to pair imported caviar with vintage champagne without blinking.

But hunger didn’t sit the same anymore.

It gnawed at my stomach, sure. But it also felt muted. Dull. Like my body was conserving its energy, aware that feeding it wouldn’t do a damn thing for the ache that sat deeper.

Iwantedto eat. Ishouldeat. But everything tasted like ash lately.

Even the thought of dragging myself to the corner market felt exhausting. My clothes still smelled like her, the faint trace of her perfume clinging to the sleeves of the shirt I hadn’t worn sincethatnight. My apartment, furnished now with things that once belonged to her, felt like walking through a haunted museum. Every cushion. Every coffee table. Every scent that rose up from the fabric. It was her.

And I was starving.

But not for food.

For her voice. For the way she looked at me when she forgot to be guarded. For the quick little laugh she tried to hide when I pushed too far with a joke.

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, hard enough to see stars.

The worst part?

I knew I’d see her tomorrow. And I had no idea if that would make me feel better or tear me to fucking pieces.

There was a knock at the door.

I growled low under my breath. Whoever decided to interrupt my spiral deserved to be punched in the face. Twice. I dragged myself up, more annoyed than curious, half-ready to bite someone’s head off.

But when I opened it—

Fuck.

Ada.

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