Cora dropped her hand from the doorknob, making a split-second decision not to overthink her actions. She quickly stripped off her wet shirt and leggings, grabbed a dry towel from the shelf, and wrapped it around herself. Her skin yearned for the dryness, but anxiety rose as she tucked the towel above her bra to secure it.

She closed her eyes, grasped the doorknob again, exhaled deeply, and pushed open the door, striding back into the room.

A surge of satisfaction ran through her as she saw Roger's double take. He lay on the bed as before—shoulders against the headboard, one leg bent at the knee, the other on the floor. He watched steadily as she swiftly crossed the room, sat primly on the bed, and leaned against the headboard. Pulling her legs up, she wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the blank television screen.

"Does the TV work?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"I…don't know…" Roger replied, his tone curious. "Do you want me to try it?"

"Mmm-hmm!" she hummed, her voice higher than usual. Roger stood and moved to the TV, giving her a view of his broad back muscles tapering to a trim waist. Two small dimples on either side of his spine were above his perfectly formed buttocks.

She gritted her teeth to stifle any sound, fighting the urge to react to seeing him undressed. Roger twisted the TV dial, but there was no reaction. He tried the other channels, but the screen remained stubbornly dark. Slowly, he turned to her.

She inhaled sharply at his gaze from beneath lowered brows. His serious face, and the flickering muscle in his cheek, betrayed his clenched teeth, his restraint. But the darkness, the intensity in his eyes…

"No such luck," he purred, dropping his hand from the television and focusing entirely on her. The weight of his attention settled on her chest, deepening her breathing.

"Oh," she said, internally lamenting the inadequacy of her response.

Roger said nothing. He prowled across the room, stopping—her breath catching—not by his side of the bed, but hers. He stopped three feet away, slowly lowering himself to sit beside her. He placed a hand on the sheets, inches from her feet, and leaned toward her.

Roger didn't touch her, but the air crackled with palpable intensity. The feeling was as potent as his wolf's tongue licking her throat. She realized she was panting as his eyes moved to her parted lips, and she heard a growl resonate in his chest.

He reached out slowly, as if to a startled hare, but she didn't move. Her body was pressed against the headboard, every inch tensed, yet she remained frozen. Roger's hand was moments from her face, a plea and a craving in its slow movement—when suddenly, a spark—a literal spark—flew between them, from his thumb to her lower lip, mere millimeters away.

She jumped at the unexpected pain, her hand flying to her mouth, stunned.

Roger blinked and retracted his hand, examining it. "What the…" he muttered, staring at his fingers as if he'd willed the spark into existence.

As he looked at his hand, her reality crumbled.

Her mind flashed through memories: Roger crying in her arms when he thought his brother was dead; her rushing to check on him after his mission; the expression on his face as he held her safe; the days on the ship, when he hadn't touched her, but his eyes and steady presence had conveyed his love and his wait for her.

Then, the wrenching heartache of the weeks after he didn't call—the sleepless nights staring at her phone's dark screen, waiting for a reply, crying herself to sleep, realizing their magic was gone. And Hank! A groan escaped her lips as she remembered Hank, burying her face in her hands, shame overwhelming her. Hank, so sweet and patient, who knew about her and Roger, and gave her space. Hank, with his soft lips, surprisingly good in bed… But even with him, she'd thought of Roger's mouth on hers at their moonlight baptism—of everything that had passed between them.

Her groan became a sob. Barely a moment had passed since Roger reached out, yet she felt his intense attention again.

"Cora!" he whispered, shocked. "What's wrong—"

"I can't do this," she cried, leaping to her feet, past him, inexplicably toward the door leading to the parking lot.

"Cora!" Roger's surprised call followed her as he stumbled after her.

But she was already gone, the door banging against the motel wall in the wind. She ran, crying, her tears mingling with the rain. Her body responded to an instinctive need to be out in the storm, to find clarity. She ran, her breathing almost in time with the thunder, her lungs gasping like the rain pounding the forest floor. She needed space, the rain on her skin; she needed to be somewhere else, where things made sense—where she made sense. She needed to escape the devastating truth of her love for a man who'd abandoned her after making her believe he loved her, a man who wanted children she couldn't give him, a man who was now back, comforting her, flirting with her, looking at her like that—but who hadn't made any promises.

Suddenly, something grabbed her arm, yanking her backward. A scream tore from her throat.