I ran. Three states, four bus tickets, and five different names. I thought if I put enough miles between us, Cole's shadow would stop following me. I thought I'd stop feeling his hands on my skin, his breath in my ear, his voice growling that I was his. I was wrong.

He tracked me like a man possessed. Through cheap motels and diners where I worked under fake names. Through rain-soaked highways and dead-end towns. But when he finally found me shivering in some fleabag apartment in Montana, he didn't drag me back. He didn't chain me to him. He just stood in that doorway with those ice-chip eyes and said, "I can let you go. If that's what you really want."

The bastard proved he could live without controlling me. He gave me what I said I needed. Freedom. Space. Choices. And every single day without him felt like drowning in slow motion. Turns out, I don't want freedom. I want him. On his terms. On his bed. On his knees. But telling him that means admitting the truth I've been running from: I'm not running from his control. I'm running from how much I crave it.

This time, I'm doing the hunting. And I'm not stopping until he claims me again.