Page 13 of Burned

“You think I enjoy this?” My voice drops. “You think I like having men in the trees? You think I like knowing Carlos is still alive? That someone used him to dangle a dead woman in front of me like bait?”

Her anger falters. Only for a second. But I catch it.

“You think she’s bait?” she asks.

“Now that I know his true nature, I think everything Carlos touches becomes a weapon used to destroy someone else.”

Her brows peak. “Including her?”

I nod. “Yes.”

The answer is immediate.

True.

Not complete, but true.

Erin’s gaze searches my face as if she is looking for a crack wide enough to crawl through. She asks, “Who was she to you?”

The cabin grows too quiet.

Outside, voices move across the porch. Bayne. Blaze. Rafe. Mack. Men pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. If I opened the door right now, they’d all find something fascinating to stare at in the trees.

I do not open the door.

I look at Erin. “She was someone I loved. But that’s in the past.” I hate myself for hurting her.

Finally, she says, “Right.”

And everything is wrong.

I’m handling this poorly. I’m saying and doing all the wrong things.

I want to close the space between us, but I don’t know how to.

“Erin.”

“No, love. That’s clear.” She nods once, too quickly. “Very clear.”

“It was years ago.”

“Love doesn’t care about calendars,” she snorts.

Her words stop me. Because she is right. She usually is.

Love doesn’t age, does it?

Even if it was the wrong love, it’s still love. Beautiful. Untouchable. Forever there.

Even when you don’t want it anymore.

In my memory, Isobel is twenty-three, laughing in a summer dress near the fountain in the town center. Then she is screaming. Then nothing.

For years, I believed she died because of me. Because I trusted Carlos. Because I loved too openly.

Because I let someone matter enough to become a target.

And I shut down. Closed myself off to love.